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COLLECTED 
LITERARY     ESSAYS 


CAMBRIDGE    UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

HonUon:  FETTER  LANE,  E.G. 

C.  F.  CLAY,  Manager 


CFJjinburgij :   loo,  PRINCES  STREET 

ISfr'.in:  A.  ASHER  AND  CO. 

ILnpng:    F.  A.  BROCKHAUS 

B.e'ca  lorfe:   G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Bombajj  anti  aTalaitta:  MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Ltd. 


AU  n'lf/i/s  reseiued 


-Z  4/ .  /e^^ 


COLLECTED 
LITERARY     ESSAYS 

CLASSICAL   AND    MODERN 
A.  W:  y^RRALL,  LiTT.D. 

KING    EDWARD    VII    PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

AND    FELLOW    OF    TRINITY    COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE 

HON.    LITT.D.,    DUBLIN 

EDITED    BY 

M.    A.   BAYFIELD,   M.A. 

AND 

J.   D.    DUFF,   M.A. 
WITH    A    MEMOIR 


Cambridge : 
at  the   University   Press 


PA  ^7 
V^7 


CamfartBge : 

PRINTED   BY  JOHN   CLAY,    M.A. 
AT   THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 


PREFACE 

THE  essays  contained  in  this  volume  have  been 
collected  from  various  periodicals,  some  of 
which  are  now  difficult  of  access.  The  selection 
was  made  by  the  author  a  few  months  before  his 
death,  at  a  time  when  there  was  every  expectation 
that  he  would  live  to  see  the  republication.  The 
names  and  dates  of  issue  of  the  periodicals  in  which 
the  essays  originally  appeared  are  given  in  the 
Table  of  Contents. 

For  permission  to  republish,  our  thanks  are  due 
to  the  editors  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  the  New 
Quarterly,  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Review,  the 
Independent  (and  Albany)  Review,  to  Mrs  M^'Nalty, 
executrix  and  literary  legatee  of  the  late  editor  of 
the  Universal  Review,  and  to  the  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  National  Home- Reading  Union. 

The  Commemorative  Address  by  Dr  Mackail, 
which  is  appended  to  the  Memoir,  was  delivered 
at  a  meeting  of  the   Academic  Committee  of  the 


VI  Preface 

Royal  Society  of  Literature  on  November  28,  191 2. 
We  are  much  indebted  to  him  for  his  kindness  in 
allowing  us  to  include  this  valuable  appreciation, 
and  we  have  to  thank  the  Society  for  permission 
to  reprint  it. 

We  have  also  to  thank  Mrs  Verrall  for  valuable 
assistance. 


May  1 913. 


M.  A.  B. 
J.  D.  D. 


CONTENTS 


f 


>-^"^W 


Portrait Frontispiece 

Memoir 

Memorial  Inscription  in  Trinity  College  Chapel 

^Commemorative  Address.     By  J.  W.  Mackail,  LL.D 

A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome      .        .        ... 
Universal  Review,  1888. 

An  Old  Love  Story 

Universal  Review,  1888. 

The  Feast  of  Saturn         .... 
Universal  Review,   1889. 

A  Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 
Universal  Review,  1889. 

Love  and  Law 

Universal  Review,  1889. 

A  Villa  at  Tivoli 127 

Universal  Review,  1890. 

"To  Follow  the  Fisherman":  a  Historical  Problem 

IN  Dante 153 

Independent  Review,  1903. 

Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statius   ....         181 
Albany  Review,  1908. 


IX 

ciii 

cv 

I 

27 

58 

85 


«S 


Vlll 


Contents 


The  Birth  of  Virgil 

Albany  Review,  IQOT- 

The  Altar  of  Mercy 

Oxford  and  Cambridge  Review^ 

Aristophanes  on  Tennyson 
New  Quarterly,  1909. 

'The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott     . 
Quarterly  Review,  1910. 

"  Diana  of  the  Crossways  " 
y  National  Home-Reading  Union's 

General  Index  .... 

Index  of  Passages 


/ 


1906. 


PAGE 
204 

319 

236 

247 

276 

289 
290 


/\ 


/> 


MEMOIR 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 
I  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own. 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine. 

In  Memoriam. 


Arthur    Woollgar    Verrall    was    born    at 
Brighton  on  February  5,  1851,  and  was  the  eldest 
of  a  family  of  three  brothers  and  two  sisters.     His      1 
father,   Henry  Verrall,  was   a  well-known    solicitor      \ 
who  held  for  many  years  the  office  of  Clerk  to  the      \ 
Magistrates  of  the  town.     Since  it  is  always  inte-     i 
resting   to    trace   the    influences  of  heredity,  some 
characteristics  may  be  mentioned  here  which  seem 
to  have  been  part  of  the  boy's  natural  debt  to  his 
parents.     From  his  father  he  would  appear  to  have 
derived  his  remarkable  inductive  powers,  his  simple 
tastes   and   dislike   of  ostentation,  and  the  patient 
endurance  with  which  he  bore  the  sufferings  and 
disabilities   of  his   later  years.     His   mother's   gift 
embraced  a  rare  conscientiousness,  the  aptitude  for 
languages  and  teaching,  the  delight  in  music  and  the 
ear  for  rhythm.    The  tie  of  affection  between  mother 
and  son  was  unusually  strong. 


X  Memoir 

At  the  age  of  nine,  his  health  being  thought  too 
fragile  even  for  the  conditions  of  a  preparatory  school, 
he  was  sent  as  a  private  pupil  to  the  Rev.  R.  Blaker, 
Vicar  of  Ifield.  Mr  Blaker  soon  discovered  the  boy's 
genius  for  languages,  and  Greek  was  immediately 
begun.  Progress  was  exceptionally  rapid,  and  two 
years  later  Mr  Blaker  wrote : 

He  certainly  gives  promise  of  more  than  ordinary  scholar- 
ship, and  if  his  health  is  good,  I  augur  an  honourable  future 
for  him.... He  evinces  a  quickness  of  comprehension  which  is 
remarkable  for  so  young  a  boy.  His  memory  is  excellent, 
and  he  is  able  to  retain  facts  and  draw  inferences  from  matters 
connected  with  his  reading  with  wonderful  clearness. 

An  amusing  little  story  of  nursery  days  perhaps 
gives  an  even  earlier  indication  of  his  bent  in  this 
direction.  The  child  was  looking  at  some  pictures 
of  red-legged  partridges,  and  was  overheard  saying 
to  himself,  'Arthur  is  a  good  boy;  he  doesn't  say 
thenis  grouses,  he  says  thems  grice' 

In   1863  he  went  to   Twyford,  the  well-known 

preparatory  school  for  Winchester,  where  he  stayed 

a  year  and  a  half.     His  health  during  this  time  was, 

however,  much  broken.     In  1864  he  competed  for 

a   Winchester   scholarship,  and    failed.     No   doubt 

the  failure  was  a  disappointment  at  the  time,  but  in 

\    after  years  he  would  refer  to  it  as  really  a  piece  of 

I    good  luck,  since  if  he  had  gone  to  Winchester,  he 

*    would  have  been  sure  to  go  to  Oxford !     In  this 

judgement   we   may  concur,  for   we   can    see    that 

Oxford   would    hardly   have    helped    him   to   *  find 

himself.'     The  Greats  course  would  have  led  him 


Memoir  xi 

into  fields  of  study  foreign  to  his  intellectual 
temperament,  and  for  metaphysics  he  had  a  whole- 
hearted dislike,  as  he  had  for  all  speculation  that 
promised  to  lead  to  no  definite  conclusion.  Never- 
theless, he  had  a  great  respect  for  Oxford  and 
a  special  affection  for  Winchester,  where  he  was 
a  frequent  visitor.  The  defeat  was  almost  im- 
mediately retrieved.  In  October  of  the  same  year, 
at  the  suggestion  of  Dr  Beard,  a  friend  of  his  father, 
he  was  hurried  off  at  a  few  hours'  notice  to  compete 
for  a  scholarship  at  Wellington  College.  Though 
his  name  had  not  been  previously  entered,  his 
candidature  was  accepted,  and  he  gained  the  second 
scholarship,  being  just  beaten  by  E.  Heriz  Smith, 
afterwards  Fellow  of  Pembroke  College,  Cambridge. 
In  a  letter  now  before  me,  Dr  Benson  wrote  that 
the  boy  '  was  nearly  though  not  quite  equal  to  the 
first  candidate.... I  like  very  much  the  boy's  clear 
and  unassuming  manner,  and  am  very  glad  nothing 
prevented  him  standing.'  It  was  like  Benson  to 
add  that  he  hoped  he  had  '  been  comfortable  under 
the  odd  and  hurried  circumstances  of  his  competition.' 
While  at  Wellington,  Verrall  must  have  experienced 
and  observed  many  such  instances  of  thoughtful 
courtesy,  and  as  we  know,  they  bore  abundant  fruit. 
Mr  Wickham  of  Twyford,  in  a  letter  written  when 
the  boy  was  leaving  the  school,  repeats  Mr  Blaker's 
impression  of  his  character  and  augury  for  his  future. 
An  earlier  letter  of  Mr  Wickham's  contains  one 
significant  remark  :  '  I  must  try  to  get  him  to  read 
a  little  Ovid  next  half  year,  to  get  him  into  more 


xii  Memoir 

style  in  his  verses.'  The  boy,  then,  was  capable  of 
independent  reading  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  had 
learned  to  dislike  Ovid,  and  needed  persuasion 
before  he  would  read  him.  This  dislike  Verrall 
never  lost,  and  I  can  recall  the  tone  of  real  sadness 
with  which  he  once  referred  to  the  essential  trivi- 
ality of  Ovid's  art ;  it  actually  distressed  him  that 
a  man  who  could  have  done  better  things  '  should 
have  left  only  piffle.'  One  can  well  believe  that 
the  boy  dimly  felt  the  same  disappointment,  that 
he  was  even  at  that  early  age  seeking  in  his 
author  something  more  than  the  *  topmost  froth  of 
thought.' 

He  entered  Wellington  at  the  end  of  his 
thirteenth  year.  Naturally  reserved,  of  a  tempera- 
ment unusually  refined,  and  with  enthusiasms  pre- 
dominantly intellectual,  he  was  not  one  of  those 
best  fitted  for  the  rough  and  tumble  of  public  school 
life.  '  Something  of  home-life,'  he  wrote  in  his 
contribution  to  the  Archbishop's  Life,  '  something 
like  the  sympathetic  and  intelligent  circle  from 
which  I  came,  was  almost  as  necessary  to  me  as 
bread  and  butter.'  When  he  got  into  the  Sixth,  as 
he  very  soon  did,  Benson's  keen  observation  detected 
this  want,  and  he  and  Mrs  Benson  supplied  it  in  the 
best  of  ways,  by  treating  the  boy  as  one  of  the  family. 
He  was  continually  in  and  out  of  the  house,  and 
whenever  he  liked,  which  was  two  or  three  times 
a  week,  he  used  to  join  the  'nursery  tea,'  at  which 
Dr  and  Mrs  Benson  were  habitually  present.  The 
value   to   him    of   this    happy    modification    of   the 


Memoir  xiii 

ordinary  conditions  of  school  life,  and  the  incal- 
culable gain  from  these  closer  relations  with  two 
such  natures,  he  always  felt  he  could  not  over- 
estimate. He  would  say,  referring  to  those  days, 
'  the  Bensons  made  Wellington  possible  for  me ' ; 
and  he  has  written,  '  He  [Dr  Benson]  saved  my 
health  and  my  sense ;  I  believe  that  he  saved  my 
life.' 

If  Verrall  had  written  an  autobiography  (a  thing 
incredible),  not  the  least  interesting  period  of  it 
would  have  been  that  of  his  later  school  years. 
Unfortunately  even  recollections  of  him  as  he 
appeared  to  others  are  disappointingly  meagre. 
One  school-fellow  writes,  'As  soon  as  Verrall  was 
in  the  Upper  Sixth  we  were  aware  that  his  mind 
was  of  a  different  order  from  ours,'  and  mentions 
'the  width  of  his  reading.'  In  an  obituary  notice 
in  the  Wellingtonian,  Mr  E.  K.  Purnell,  also  a 
school-fellow,  gives  a  little  vignette  of  unmistakable 
fidelity  : 

A  contemporary,  who  knew  him  first  as  a  clever  boy  of 
1 8,  described  him  as  in  those  days  a  most  talkative  vivacious 
youth,  his  eyes  kindling  with  life  and  enthusiasm  as  he  talked, 
his  voice  running  up  into  a  kind  of  falsetto.  He  observed 
and  was  interested  in  everything  and  everybody,  and  his 
personality,  with  its  many-sided  sympathies,  impressed  itself 
on  all  with  whom  it  came  in  contact.  The  same  person, 
meeting  him  when  he  was  examining  for  the  Benson  a  few 
years  ago,  was  drawn  irresistibly  by  the  charm  of  his  intense 
vitality,  and  the  unconquerable  courage  which  still  helped 
him  to  keep  up  his  part  in  the  scheme  of  life — in  a  Bath 
chair. 


xiv  Memoir 

These  two  brief  scraps  are  all  that  can  now  be 
obtained.  One  episode,  however,  Verrall  has  him- 
self related  with  curious  but  characteristic  detachment 
and  candour  in  the  contribution  to  the  Life  of  the 
Archbishop  referred  to  above. 

I  saw  that  after  the  approaching  holidays  I  should... 
almost  certainly  be  '  Head  of  the  School,'  a  really  laborious 
and  responsible  change.  I  was  then  a  rapacious  student  and 
(except  perhaps  an  infamous  player  of  football)  nothing  else. 
My  perturbation  may  be  measured  by  my  helpless  imperti- 
nence. Without  any  intimation  of  the  Headmaster's  purposes, 
I  actually  went  and  told  him  that  I  could  not  be  '  Head,'  and 
that  I  should  leave !  I  ought,  I  dare  say,  to  have  been 
snubbed.  What  I  know  is  that  a  harsh  or  light  word  then 
would  have  ruined  my  best  chance  in  life,  and  (as  I  make 
bold  to  say)  would  have  lost  a  good  year  to  the  school.... He 
discussed  the  matter  with  me  almost  daily,  always  from  my 
point  of  view.... In  a  fortnight  I  was  a  very  little  ashamed 
and  exceedingly  sanguine.  And  during  my  year  I  was  to 
the  Headmaster  like  a  third  hand. 

In  the  spring  of  1869  he  obtained  a  Minor 
Scholarship  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and 
a  Foundation  Scholarship  in  the  following  year. 
He  was  bracketed  with  Henry  Butcher  from  Marl- 
borough and  Walter  Leaf  from  Harrow — a  remark- 
able trio  to  have  entered  for  the  same  examination. 
When  the  result  was  known,  Dr  Benson  wrote  to 
Mr  Henry  Verrall : 

He  has  done  beautifully,  and  he  deserves  success.  For 
his  heart  is  wholly  in  his  work,  and  that  with  so  much  modesty 
and  so  much  affectionateness,  that  no  one  can  rejoice  too 
much  at  his  success  or  fear  that  it  may  spoil  him.  His  two 
co-equals   are   respectively  thought   the   best   of  their   two 


Memoir  xv 

schools  for  several  years  past.  And  one  of  the  examiners 
has  written  to  tell  me  that  if  it  had  been  possible  to  make 
a  difference  it  would  have  been  in  Arthur's  favour. 

We  may  congratulate  each  other  most  sincerely — only  on 
one  point  you  must  not  congratulate  me,  for  it  is  hard  to  part 
with  him,  I  assure  you. 

Of  the  undergraduate  period  available  informa- 
tion is  scanty,  and  no  letters  have  been  preserved. 
In  the  time  at  which  he  went  up  to  the  University- 
he  was  not  a  little  fortunate,  for  among  his  contem- 
poraries and  friends  were  such  men  as  Walter  Leaf, 
Henry  Butcher,  F.  W.  Maitland,  J.  G.  Butcher, 
Frank  and  Gerald  Balfour,  A.  J.  Mason,  A.  T. 
Myers  (a  younger  brother  of  F.  W.  H.  Myers), 
T.  O.  Harding,  Edmund  Gurney,  G.  H.  Kendall, 
W.  Cunningham,  and  F.  J.  H.  Jenkinson.  With 
all  these,  and  the  first  three  especially,  he  main- 
tained a  life-long  friendship,  and  the  deaths  of 
F.  W.  Maitland  in  1906  and  of  Henry  Butcher  in 
1 9 10  were  blows  little  less  than  overwhelming. 
Among  his  older  contemporaries  were  Henry 
Sidgwick,  R.  C.  Jebb,  Henry  Jackson,  and  Frederick 
Pollock.  One  event,  which  occurred  early  in  his 
University  career,  he  spoke  of  at  the  time  as  '  the 
best  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me  in  my  life.' 
This  was  his  admission  to  a  private  but  not  obscure 
society,  consisting  of  graduates  and  undergraduates, 
which  met,  and  still  meets,  for  intimate  discussion  of 
any  and  every  subject.  Dating  at  least  as  far  back 
as  the  time  of  Tennyson,  it  counts  among  its  numbers, 
I  believe,  many  of  Cambridge's  most  distinguished 


xvi  Memoir 

men,  and  Verrall  always  considered  that  he  owed 
more  to  his  membership  of  this  '  glorious  company ' 
than  to  any  other  influence  of  Cambridge  life. 
Another  surviving  incident  of  the  undergraduate  life 
is  sufficiently  characteristic  to  deserve  record.  It 
fell  to  him  to  have  to  read  in  the  College  chapel  the 
lesson  about  the  feast  of  Belshazzar  from  the  Book 
of  Daniel.  Those  who  were  present  declare  that 
the  solemnity  and  dramatic  power  with  which  he 
delivered  it,  combined  with  the  rare  quality  of  the 
voice,  were  astonishingly  impressive  and  made  the 
occasion  quite  unforgettable. 

To  The  Taller  in  Cambridge,  an  unusually  good 
example  of  those  short-lived  periodicals  with  which 
the  undergraduate  genius  from  time  to  time  pro- 
motes the  gaiety  of  University  life,  he  contributed 
four  clever  papers.  The  most  amusing  of  these  is 
perhaps  one  on  Bain's  Mental  and  Moral  Science. 
The  book,  he  discovers,  has  running  through  it  a 
vein  of  subtle  humour,  and  he  gently  warns  the 
author  that  this  is  a  talent  which  in  such  a  work 
should  be  exercised  with  philosophic  discretion. 
The  criticism  of  satire  is  perhaps  all  that  the  work 
deserves,  and  an  admirable  piece  of  fooling  closes 
with  the  following  poetical  summary  of  Mr  Bain's 
views. 


/ 


There  was  a  Professor  called  Bain 
Who  taught,  in  the  Land  of  the  Rain, 
That  the  ultimate  Fact 
Which  induced  you  to  act 
Was  an  Inkling  of  Pleasure  or  Pain. 


Memoir  xvii 

He  proved  that  Volitional  Force 
Depended  entirely  on  Sauce, 

Inasmuch  as  the  Question 

Was  one  of  Digestion, 
And  Morals  would  follow  of  course. 

Your  Head  was  impressible  Batter 
Compounded  of  White  and  Grey  Matter, 

So  your  Measure  of  Reason 

Would  flow  from  'Adhesion ' 
To  a  tender  and  merciful  Hatter. 

He  laid  the  Foundations  of  Virtue 
In  finding  by  Trial  what  hurt  you ; 

And  spite  of  your  Terror 

Would  stick  to  his  Error, 
And  at  last,  and  at  best,  would  desert  you. 

Religion  and  Duty  he  made 
A  Manner  of  feeling  afraid ; 

And  Tact,  on  his  showing. 

Consisted  in  knowing 
The  Feel  of  the  Tongs  from  the  Spade. 

Faith,  Charity,  Hope  were  reducible 
To  Phosphate  or  Salt  in  a  Crucible, 

Dissent  and  Dysentery 

Both  'Alimentary,' 
Manners  and  Mammon  both  fusible. 

If  Flesh  can  be  sane  or  insane. 
And  Meat  the  sole  Factor  of  Brain, 

Then  hey  !  for  the  Cooks, 

Since  the  Moral  of  Books 
Is  'Leave  Writing  for  Eating,'  O  Baiti. 

In  1872  he  obtained  the  Pitt  University  Scho- 
larship, and  in  the  next  year  passed  out  in  the 
Classical  Tripos,  being  bracketed  second  with  T.  E. 
Page  ;  Henry  Butcher  was  Senior  Classic.     In  the 


xviii  Memoir 

examination  for  the  Chancellor's  Medals,  which 
immediately  followed,  the  three  were  bracketed 
equal,  and  a  third  medal  was  awarded, — a  thing 
never  done  before  or  since. 

In  connexion  with  his  Tripos  Verrall  used  to 
tell  an  amusing  story,  which  he  always  regarded  as 
illustrating  in  a  remarkable  manner  the  perverse 
vagaries  of  the  human  mind.  He  had  to  translate  a 
passage  from  Tacitus  in  which  Tiberius  is  described 
as  doing  something  Rhodo  regressus.  These  words 
he  rendered  by  'on  his  return  to  Rhodes,'  and 
added  two  marginal  notes,  the  first  explaining  and 
endeavouring  to  justify  the  use  of  Rhodo  for  Rhodum, 
and  the  second  explaining  how  Tacitus  came  to 
speak  of  Tiberius  as  having  done  after  his  return  to 
Rhodes  what  it  was  common  knowledge  that  he  did 
after  his  return  from  Rhodes.  Not  till  he  got  back 
to  his  rooms  did  it  occur  to  him  that  it  would  have 
been  simpler  to  v^x\\.^  from  in  his  translation ! 

In  the  same  year  he  was  elected  Fellow  of 
Trinity  College,  and  resided  in  Cambridge  until  the 
summer  of  1874,  taking  private  pupils.  I  was  my- 
self an  undergraduate  at  this  time,  and  knew  him 
by  sight,  but  alas !  did  not  know  what  I  was  losing 
by  not  asking  to  be  allowed  to  join  those  lucky 
youths. 

In  July  Benson,  who  had  now  left  Wellington, 
wrote  to  him  that  there  was  a  vacancy  on  the  staff 
of  the  School : — 

I  need  scarcely  say  to  you  that  the  idea  present  to  all 
men's  minds  is  what  would  have  been  present  with  me,  viz. 


Memoir  xix 

whether  it  would  be  compatible  with  your  arrangements  that 

you  should  give  them  any  help I  need  scarcely  put  into 

words  the  fact  that  you  would  be  more  useful  to  Wellington 
College  than  any  man  living.  What  they  want  is  enthusiasm 
— high-couraged  work — with  scholarship.  And  of  course 
they  want  a  feeling,  understanding  soul. 

Happily  he  resisted  this  earnest  appeal. 

For  the  next  three  years  he  lived  in  London, 
reading  for  the  Bar  and  doing  a  certain  amount  of 
teaching  work.  From  1875  ^o  1877  he  was  'Super- 
numerary Instructor  in  composition  and  extra  read- 
ing'  at  S.  Paul's  School.  He  gained  the  Whewell 
Scholarship  for  International  Law  in  1875,  '^^s 
called  in  1877,  and  held  one  brief,  if  not  two. 
A  legal  career,  however,  had  no  attraction  for  him  : 
in  October  he  returned  to  Cambridge,  and  was  soon 
afterwards  placed  on  the  teaching  staff  at  Trinity. 
From  that  time  onwards  Cambridge  was  his  home. 
For  the  next  five  years  he  combined  with  his  work 
at  the  University  some  teaching  at  Wren's  well- 
known  coaching  establishment  in  London.  He  also 
taught  at  Newnham  College,  and  in  connexion  with 
his  work  there  Miss  Jane  Harrison  tells  a  delightful 
story. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  a  brilliant  dramatist  was 
not  lost  in  the  finding  and  making  of  a  subtle  classical 
scholar.  One  day,  as  quite  a  young  ntan,  he  was  looking 
over  my  composition  in  the  then  library  of  Old  Hall.  Coals 
were  wanted  and  no  coal-scuttle  in  sight.  After  a  longish 
hunt  I  remembered  that  the  library  coal-scuttle  always  lay 
perdu  between  the  double  doors  that  led  to  Miss  Clough's 
sitting-room.  The  arrangement,  owing  to  its  ingenious 
economy  in  coal-scuttles,  used  to  cause  Miss  Clough  a  quite 

V.  L.  E.  b 


XX  Memoii' 

peculiar  and  intimate  joy.  No  less  though  a  slightly  different 
joy  did  it  cause  Mr  Verrall.  On  catching  sight  of  the  coal- 
scuttle and  the  double  doors  he  stood  transfigured  and  trans- 
fixed. '  What  a  scene  for  a  play  ! '  he  exclaimed,  and  coal 
scuttle  in  hand,  me  and  my  composition  utterly  forgotten, 
the  plot  of  that  play  he  then  and  there  constructed  and 
enacted. 

In  1 88 1  he  published  his  first  book,  an  edition 
of  the  Medea  of  Euripides.  He  had  been  asked 
by  Messrs  Macmillan  &  Co.  to  prepare  a  school 
edition  of  the  play,  but  on  getting  to  work  he  found 
that  the  limits  of  a  school-book,  even  if  that  were 
the  proper  medium,  would  be  far  too  narrow  for 
what  needed  to  be  done  for  the  Medea,  and  what 
he  felt  he  could  do.  The  book  was  remarkable  not 
only  as  the  production  of  a  young  man  of  thirty,  but 
in  itself;  it  was  strikingly  original  and  brilliant,  and 
was  at  once  recognised  as  the  work  of  a  scholar  of 
the  first  rank.  Nothing  of  the  kind,  nor  perhaps 
anything  approaching  it,  had  previously  been  done 
on  the  Greek  tragedians.  While  he  breathed  fresh 
life  into  the  play  itself,  the  effect  of  his  work  went 
further  ;  for  it  suggested  what  might  be  done  for 
other  legacies  of  the  Attic  stage,  interest  in  which 
seemed  to  be  steadily  sinking  into  the  mere  formal 
respect  one  pays  to  a  dull  old  man  whose  former 
dignities  do  not  permit  him  to  be  quite  ignored. 
The  volume  was  welcomed  with  delight  and  admi- 
ration, and  I  think  I  recogfnise  the  hand  of  Professor 
Tyrrell  in  a  long  and  frankly  eulogistic  article  un- 
earthed from  the  file  of  the  Saturday  Revieiv.     The 


Memoir  xxi 

textual  restorations,  of  which  something  will  be  said 
below,  naturally  attracted  special  attention,  and 
confirmed  to  their  author,  if  they  did  not  originate, 
the  half-jesting,  half-earnest  sobriquet  '  Splendid  . 
Emendax.'  But  this  part  of  the  work  was  by  no 
means  the  chief  or  the  most  valuable.  Other  merits 
were  found  in  rare  and  perhaps  unprecedented  com- 
bination :  a  peculiarly  delicate  appreciation  of  the 
subtleties  of  the  language,  a  fine  discrimination 
between  expressions  superficially  identical,  a  subtle 
appreciation  of  the  poet's  skill  in  delineation  of 
character,  and  an  acute  perception  of  the  necessities 
and  possibilities  of  a  dramatic  situation.  In  the  two 
last  Verrall  had  no  rival  among  his  predecessors, 
and  few  if  any  equals  then  or  later  among  his  con- 
temporaries. As  one  perused  the  text  afresh  after 
digesting  the  commentary,  one  found  the  scenes 
leap  into  life,  one  saw  and  heard  the  drama  in 
progress  ;  or  rather — but  here  we  have  first  to 
thank  Euripides — one  felt  one  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  living  Medea  and  a  living  Jason.  The  notes 
were  enriched  with  illustrations  drawn  from  English 
literature  and  even  (as  the  writer  in  the  Saturday 
Review  notes)  a  parallel  from  Lohengrin,  '  which  to 
a  commentator  of  the  older  school  would  have  ap- 
peared unpardonably  frivolous.' 

Of  these  qualities  of  the  book  there  was  but 
one  opinion,  but  the  textual  work  divided  readers 
into  two  camps.  While  the  teachable,  old  or  young, 
were  only  grateful,  there  were  some  who  were 
offended    by   the    originality    and    alarmed    at    the 

b2 


xxii  Memoir 

brilliance.     They  mistrusted  the  cleverness  of  emen- 
dations   which    took    their    breath    away,    making 
familiar   passages   unrecognisable,   and   they  feared 
the  effects  of  a  pernicious  example.     Thus  did  the 
mediaeval  world  regard  Galileo.      It  is  an  attitude 
towards  Verrall's  work  as  a  textual  critic — whether 
here  or  in  later  books — which  has  always  filled  me 
with  astonishment,  for  his  methods  were  essentially 
sound.     As  all  his  labours  in  this  department  show, 
his  decisions  were  not  based  on  mere  guess-work 
(of  which  he  always  spoke  with  some  impatience), 
but  were  conclusions  arrived  at  from  the  evidence 
furnished  by  the  mss.  themselves.     Where  he  dif- 
fered from  others  was  in  the  possession  of  unusual  in- 
ductive powers,  which  enabled  him  to  see  further  \  and 
these  powers  were  assisted  by  a  rare  sense  of  lite- 
rary and   dramatic  fitness,   an  apparently  complete 
acquaintance  with  the  extant  vocabulary  of  classical 
Greek,  and  an  exceptional  memor}^     We   may,   if 
we  please,  sum  up  all  this  as  '  ingenuity,'  but  if  we 
do,  we  must  not  use  the  word  in  a  disparaging  sense. 
Of  course,   and    he   used   readily  to  admit    it,    the 
sharp-edged  tool  sometimes  slipped.      Impatient  of 
the   '  fluffy '  explanation   that   does   not  explain,   he 
was  occasionally  tempted  to  offer  something  which 
still  fails  to  satisfy,  and  which  only  he  could  have 
made  plausible.     Again,  as  some   think,  he  some- 
times finds  a  point  where  none  was  intended.      It 
may  be  so,  but  it  is  surely  well  to  err  on  the  side  of 
respect  for  one's  author,  and  if  we  do  not  believe 
in  pointless   lines  in  Aristophanes,  why  should  we 


Memoir  xxiii 

tolerate  them  in  the  texts  of  the  tragedians  ?  And 
after  all,  to  accompany  Verrall  even  on  an  incon- 
clusive quest,  is  to  learn  things  by  the  way  which 
are  perhaps  as  valuable  as  what  we  may  have  set 
out  to  seek. 

In  emendation  he  kept  two  ruling  principles 
always  before  him  :  he  did  not  accept  or  offer  a 
correction  as  more  than  possible,  unless  the  sup- 
posed corruption  were  accounted  for,  either  by  the 
correction  itself  or  otherwise  ;  and  he  held  that  an 
odd  variant,  just  because  of  its  oddness  or  grotesque- 
ness  or  absurdity,  might  possibly  conceal  the  true 
reading,  as  against  the  passable  respectability  of  the 
textus  receptus.  The  first,  of  course,  was  a  well 
established  canon,  though  one  freely  ignored ;  the 
potentialities  of  the  second  had  been  but  dimly  ap- 
prehended. Three  examples,  taken  from  the  Medea, 
will  show  his  methods  at  work. 

At  V.  668, 

Ti  S'  o[k^aXov  yr\^  OeaTTtcohov  ecrrctXT;?; 

is  the  text  of  all  the  mss.  ;  but  the  second  hand  in  b 
(one  of  the  inferior  class  s)  has  superscribed  Uai/et?. 
icTToXr)';  is  irreproachable,  but  lKdu€i.s  cannot  be  a 
gloss  on  it,  and  Verrall  deduces  l^dveL<;  as  the  true 
reading.  If  anyone  cannot  see  this,  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said  ;  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  dull,  let 
him  hug  his  eo-rctXry?  and  be  happy. 

At  V.  531  the  'superior'  class  of  mss.  give 

£i)5  *E/Da>9  cr'  TfudyKacre 
TTOVdiv  d<f)VKTa}u  Tovfiov  iKCToxraL  oe/xa?. 


xxiv  Memoir 

The  *  inferior '  class  give  rd^ot?  d(f)VKToi<;.  Paley's 
note  is,  '  There  is  a  variant  rd^ot?  oi<f)VKTOL<;,  ap- 
proved by  Elmsley,'  and  he  passes  on  with  the 
crowd.  Verrall  was  not  so  easily  satisfied.  Both 
variants  are  passable  though  feeble,  but  their  pre- 
sence as  alternatives  is  unaccounted  for,  and  he 
offers  ToVois  d^u/crot?  as  the  common  original.  If 
anyone  thinks  there  was  no  problem  to  be  solved, 
again  there  is  no  more  to  be  said. 

At  V.  1 183  the  'superior'  mss.  have 

17   8'   €^  dvavSov  Koi  fivaavToi;  o/JifxaTO<s 
heivov  (TTevd^acT    rj  Tokaiv    rjyeipeTO. 

The  *  inferior '  class  give  a  variant  aTrwXXvro.  No 
one  had  seen  that  dvavhov  (dvavyov,  Verrall) 
required  correction,  and  since  dnioXXvTo  passed  un- 
heeded, TjyeipeTo  of  course  incurred  no  suspicion. 
But  it  is  just  from  this  absurd  dircjXkvTo,  as  a  cor- 
rection of  ANQ/\AATOY,  a  misreading  of  a  mis-spelt 
ANQMATOY,  that  our  'daring'  editor  restores  ANQM- 
MATOY.  Unfortunately  ai/o/x/xarai  is  not  an  extant 
word,  and  that  fact  has  been  to  some,  in  this  case 
and  others,  a  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  accept- 
ance. One  reviewer  solemnly  deprecated  '  these 
attempts  to  enrich  the  Greek  language.'  The  logic 
is  somewhat  Chinese,  but  minds  work  variously. 
In  China  the  scholar  himself,  on  returning  from  a 
journey,  is  in  danger  of  being  refused  recognition 
by  his  family,  argue  as  he  may,  unless  he  can  pro- 
duce the  tally  which  is  the  one  sure  proof  that  he  is 
not  a  masquerading  devil.     So  the  English  editor 


Memoir  xxv 

should  perhaps  not  be  surprised  if,  when  he  says 
'Take  my  word  for  it,'  his  word  is  regarded  as  some 
such  masquerading  devil,  unless  he  can  produce 
from  the  lexicon  a  reference  to  its  respectability. 

There  is  naturally  no  trace  in  Verrall's  Medea  of 
the  theory  of  Euripides'  art  which  he  afterwards 
elaborated,  and  the  one  miraculous  incident  in  the 
play,  the  dragon-chariot,  is  passed  over  without 
special  comment.  One  paragraph  in  the  Introduc- 
tion is,  however,  noteworthy  in  this  connexion.  It 
was  a  traditional  commonplace  that  the  poet's  con- 
cern in  the  stories  which  he  dramatized  was  pre- 
dominantly with  their  human  interest,  but  so  far  as 
I  am  aware,  no  one  had  previously  laid  stress  on  the 
significant  completeness  with  which  the  marvellous 
and  all  reference  to  it  are  excluded  from  the  Medea, 
at  any  rate  until  the  play's  proper  climax  has  been 
reached.  The  observation  appears  to  have  been 
fruitful. 

To  Euripides,  therefore,  the  story  of  Medea  is  interesting 
wholly  as  a  plot  of  passion,  and  all  other  aspects  of  it  are 
thrown  into  the  background.  Indeed,  considering  the  rich 
fabric  of  romance  with  which  her  name  had  been  interwoven, 
it  is  not  a  little  curious  to  observe  how  strictly  it  is  reduced 
by  the  dramatist  to  its  human  and  ethical  elements.  The 
splendid  and  marvellous  story  of  the  Argonauts  is  of  course 
a  necessary  presumption,  but  the  allusions  to  it  are  so  curt 
and  so  colourless  that,  even  with  the  story  before  us,  it  is 
sometimes  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  interpret  them  {Med.  479, 
487) ;  and  it  is  plain  that  any  other  story  would  have  been 
as  acceptable,  which  furnished  or  admitted  the  essential  points 
of  the  situation,  the  proud  barbarian  wife  and  mother  aban- 
doned by  the  Greek  husband  to  whom  she  has  sacrificed  all. 


XX  vi  Memoir 

Even  the  chorus  in  their  lyric  songs  occupy  themselves  with 
the  ethic  and  pathetic  aspects  only,  with  the  social  and  intel- 
lectual position  of  woman,  the  virtue  of  self-control,  the 
blessings  and  trials  of  parents,  the  sanctity  of  hospitable 
Athens,  with  anything,  in  short,  rather  than  the  clashing 
rocks  and  the  fire-breathing  bulls,  the  ram  of  Phrixos  and 
the  cauldron  of  Pelias.    (p.  xviii.) 


In  1882  (June  17)  he  married  Margaret  de  Gau- 
drion  Merrifield,  daughter  of  Frederic  Merrifield, 
Barrister-at-law,  of  Brighton,  now  Clerk  of  the 
Peace  of  East  and  West  Sussex.  Miss  Merri- 
field, after  a  study  of  Latin  and  Greek  extending 
over  practically  no  more  than  the  period  of  her 
University  life,  had  taken  honours  in  the  Classical 
Tripos  Examination  of  1880,  and  was  at  the  time  a 
resident  Classical  Lecturer  at  Newnham  College. 
For  many  years  after  her  marriage  Mrs  Verrall 
continued  to  take  part  in  the  classical  teaching  at 
Newnham,  and  her  valuable  work  in  connexion 
with  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  during  the 
last  ten  years  is  well  known  to  a  large  section  of  the 
public.  Of  the  married  life  of  these  my  dearest 
friends  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  say  more  than  that 
the  union  seemed  to  be  as  ideal  as  that  of  Robert 
and  Elizabeth  Browning,  and  to  realise  to  the  utmost 
the  beautiful  vision  of  The  Princess : 

Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth. 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life. 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound  the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind. 


Memoir  xxvii 

There  is  one  daughter  of  the  marriage,  Miss 
Helen  de  G.  Verrall,  who  has  inherited  largely 
both  the  gifts  and  qualities  of  her  parents.  She 
obtained  a  First  Class  in  the  Classical  Tripos  Part  I 
in  1905,  and  a  First  Class  in  Part  II  in  1906. 

Verrall 's  next  book,  Studies  in  Horace,  published 
in  1883  and  now  out  of  print,  is  a  collection  of  essays 
on  the  Odes  of  Horace.  The  volume  is  written 
with  charming  freshness,  and  the  poems  discussed 
gain  a  new  life  and  often  a  quite  unexpected  interest 
from  the  originality  and  independence  of  the 
criticisms.  The  most  important  essay  is  the  one 
entitled  Murena.  Identifying  the  famous  con- 
spirator of  that  name  with  the  Murena  of  in  19 
and  the  Lucius  Licinius  Varro  Murena  whose  'sister' 
Maecenas  married  (and  on  this  identification  the 
main  weight  of  the  contention  rests),  Verrall  en- 
deavours to  show  that  the  first  three  books  of  the 
Odes  were  not  published  before  B.C.  19,  as  against 
the  generally  accepted  lowest  date  b.c.  23. 

Although  he  failed  to  commend  his  view  on 
either  point  to  some  of  those  best  entitled  to  form 
an  opinion,  nevertheless  both  questions  are  still 
matters  of  dispute,  and  an  eminent  Italian  historian, 
ignorant  of  the  existence  of  Venall's  book,  has 
recently  expressed  agreement  with  him  so  far  as  to 
hold  that  the  Odes  '  are  a  single  poetic  work,  ani- 
mated by  a  central  idea,  and  not  a  miscellany  of 
disconnected  verse.' 

Scattered  through  the  volume  are  vivid  pictures 
of  Roman  society  in  the  Augustan  age,  drawn  with 


xxviii  Memoir 

a  rare  dexterity,  and  the  power  exhibited  in  ap- 
praising the  significance  of  historical  events,  the 
liveliness  and  sureness  of  touch  with  which  they 
are  described,  and  the  insight  which  marks  the  pour- 
trayal  of  character,  show  that  when  we  gained  a 
scholar  and  critic,  we  perhaps  lost  an  unusually 
gifted  historian.  A  great  Latinist  wrote  at  the 
time :  *  The  essay  on  Murena  was  to  me  the  one  of 
most  fascinating  interest.  If  a  drama  or  historical 
romance  on  the  personages  and  incidents  of  the 
Augustan  age  were  to  be  written,  the  writer  would 
find  his  materials  in  that  essay.'  The  following 
brief  extract  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  much  more 
that  is  equally  striking. 

For  the  difficulty  lies  not  in  the  fact  of  the  allusion  to 
Murena,  but  in  the  tone  of  it.  That  Horace,  writing  or  pub- 
lishing after  the  conspiracy,  would  pass  the  history  of  Murena 
in  silence  can  in  no  way  be  presumed.  As  a  poet,  indeed, 
he  could  ill  afford  to  do  so.  A  theme  more  suggestive  for 
poetry  of  a  tragic  cast,  especially  as  the  ancients  conceived 
of  tragedy,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  The  whole  story 
from  prologue  to  catastrophe — the  hard  lessons  of  experience 
learnt  and  forgotten,  the  humiHation,  the  sudden  rise  and  ill- 
sustained  prosperity,  the  insolent  tongue  which  made  enemies 
when  it  was  the  time  to  propitiate  envy,  the  doubtful  guilt 
and  certain  ruin,  the  wide-spread  sympathy  not  unmixed 
with  horror — all  that  our  authorities  give  us  unites  in  a 
subject  such  as  Aeschylus  chose,  a  veritable  TpaywSt'a  of  real 
life,  acted  not  in  the  theatre  of  Dionysus  but  in  the  midst  of 
the  society  of  Rome.  Nor  would  the  relation  between  the 
poet  and  Maecenas  forbid  the  subject,  if  only  it  were  touched 
in  a  proper  spirit.  What  was  the  private  opinion  of  Maecenas 
on  Murena's  crime  and  the  emperor's  justice,  it  would  be  vain 
to  conjecture.   But  on  no  view  could  he  desire  silence,   (p.  31.) 


Memoir  xxix 

From  1886  to  the  summer  of  1889,  in  addition 
to  his  other  work,  he  lectured  at  Pembroke  College. 
An  interesting  anecdote  falls  somewhere  in  this 
period.  On  a  certain  Saturday  he  was  going  to 
London  for  the  day.  On  the  following  Monday  the 
Trinity  lecturers  would  be  wanting  to  distribute  to 
their  pupils  printed  copies  of  a  piece  of  English  for 
translation  into  Latin  hexameters.  It  was  Verrall's 
turn  to  set  this  piece,  and  at  the  Cambridge  station 
he  remembered  that  he  had  not  done  so.  More- 
over, his  Latin  version  of  the  piece  should  be  in  the 
lecturers'  hands  on  the  Tuesday  morning.  From 
London  he  telegraphed  to  the  University  Press  to 
print  and  send  out  to  the  lecturers  that  day  'Merchant 
of  Venice,  Act  v.  sc.  i,  from  "The  moon  shines 
bright "  to  "  footing  of  a  man,"  '  and  he  composed 
the  version,  from  a  perfect  recollection  of  the  Eng- 
lish, during  the  day.  A  few  final  touches  were  given 
next  day,  and  the  copy  sent  off  to  press.  It  will  be 
found,  with  about  a  score  more  from  his  pen,  in 
Cambridge  Compositions  (1899).  tie  wrote  Greek 
and  Latin  with  almost  as  much  facility  as  English, 
and  in  a  style  that  has  the  true  ring,  as  a  man  writes 
a  language  which  he  speaks.  All  his  compositions 
possess  distinction  and  individuality,  and  some  of 
his  verse  is  such  as  an  ancient  poet  might  have 
published  with  advantage  to  his  reputation.  One 
merit  of  his  versions  is  sufficiently  uncommon,  even 
in  the  best  work  of  this  kind,  to  deserve  special 
mention  :  he  never  failed  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the 
original.      I  regret  that  there  is  not  space  to  quote 


XXX  Memoir 

here  the  copy  referred  to  above,  for  it  affords  an 
excellent  illustration  of  this,  reproducing  with  an 
absolute  fidelity  (so  at  least  it  seems  to  me)  the 
extremely  delicate  tone  of  Shakspeare's  sole  but 
perfect  idyll. 

In  1887  he  published  an  edition  of  the  Septetn 
contra  Thebas  of  Aeschylus.  The  play  offers  no 
scope  for  such  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  poet's 
art  as  we  have  in  the  commentaries  on  the  great 
trilogy,  but  this  volume  inaugurated  a  new  era  in 
the  interpretation  of  the  play  and  in  the  study  of 
Aeschylus  as  a  whole.  The  same  faculties  which 
had  been  so  fruitful  in  the  case  of  the  Medea  were 
brought  to  bear,  and  now  by  a  reconstruction  of  the 
text,  now  by  a  more  satisfying  interpretation,  he 
gave  to  passage  after  passage  fresh  or  fuller  sig- 
nificance. At  the  same  time  he  did  much  to  quicken 
and  enlarge  our  appreciation  of  the  characteristic 
qualities  of  Aeschylean  diction  and  style.  There 
were  of  course,  here  and  there,  instances  of  the 
inevitable  over-subtlety, — he  expected  it  himself,  no 
less  than  did  his  readers  ;  but  we  have  learned  to 
regard  these  things  as  mere  spots  on  the  sun,  which 
are,  I  believe,  due  to  uprushes  of  excessive  energy 
from  the  solar  subliminal,  and  doubtless  not  without 
their  use.  No  man  was  less  disposed  to  hold  to  'a 
poor  thing'  because  it  was  'his  own,'  and  I  can 
remember  points,  both  in  this  play  and  in  others, 
which  upon  discussion  he  instantly  abandoned  when 
a  reasonable  objection  was  presented.  Sometimes 
(and  every  scholar  could  illustrate  this  from  his  own 


Memoir  xxxi 

case)  the  obvious  vie,w  had  simply  not  occurred  to 
him.  One  day,  during  my  last  visit,  I  was  reading 
over  in  his  presence  an  unpublished  ms.  which  he 
had  written  on  a  passage  in  Lucan,  and  in  which 
reference  was  made  to  a  statuette  possessed  by 
Alexander  the  Great, 

quam  comitem  occasus  secum  portabat  et  ortus. 

Verrall  had  translated,  '  whether  he  went  east  or 
west,'  and  I  interrupted  my  reading  to  ask  him  why 
he  did  not  think  the  meaning  was  '  night  and  morn- 
ing.' His  immediate  answer  was,  '  I  did  not  think 
of  it.' 

Perhaps  the  most  valuable  of  Verrall's  contribu- 
tions to  our  enjoyment  of  the  Septem  is  one  which 
affects  the  whole  play,  and  concerns  a  matter  on 
which  no  one  dreamed  that  there  could  be  anything 
novel  to  say.  By  general  consent  it  was  agreed 
that  the  play  was  wanting  in  true  dramatic  interest. 
There  was  a  wealth  of  gorgeous  and  majestic  poetry, 
and  a  succession  of  stirring  scenes,  which  never- 
theless failed  to  give  the  genuine  tragic  thrill. 
There  was  none  of  the  suspense  and  painful  interest 
that  is  produced  as  we  watch  the  action  steadily 
working  up  to  a  supreme  moment ;  none  of  the 
•  horror  and  pity  '  to  which  we  are  moved  when  at 
that  moment  the  blow  of  fate  is  suddenly  struck, 
without  warning,  and  in  a  manner  that  its  victim 
had  never  suspected.  By  a  master-stroke  of  dra- 
matic instinct  Verrall  restored  the  deficiency,  and 
showed  that   the    meeting  of  the   brothers,  usually 


xxxii  Memoir 

supposed  to  be  foreseen,  was  on  the  contrary  an 
unexpected /^r?Jz^^/^m  developed  on  the  stage.  This 
makes  tragedy  indeed ;  but  a  reviewer,  as  I  remem- 
ber, '  confessed  that  he  thought  the  new  view  made 
no  difference,' — and  this,  though  he  was  writing 
under  no  compulsion. 

In  1889  he  became  one  of  the  four  Tutors  at 
Trinity.  He  accepted  the  office  with  a  deep  sense 
of  its  responsibilities.  Its  duties,  he  felt,  included 
the  cultivation  of  really  human  relations  with  the 
men,  a  thing  involving  considerable  expenditure  of 
time  and  energy,  but  an  expenditure  that  must  be 
made,  he  believed,  if  the  work  was  to  be  properly 
performed.  For  this  closer  intercourse,  which  was 
to  him  and  Mrs  Verrall  a  source  of  genuine  pleasure, 
opportunities  were  made  in  a  manner  at  that  time 
almost  unknown  among  Tutors,  by  the  exercise  of 
frequent  hospitality  at  Selwyn  Gardens.  All  the 
freshmen,  some  fifty  in  number,  were  invited  to 
dinner  in  their  first  term,  which  involved  a  dinner- 
party two  or  three  times  a  week,  and  tennis  and 
croquet  parties  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  were  a 
regular  institution  of  the  May  term.  It  was  in  this 
way,  besides  others,  that  he  sowed  the  seeds  of  that 
affection  which  most  of  his  men  came  to  feel  towards 
him.  '  You  know  how  much  more  than  a  merely 
official  relation  Dr  Verrall  made  of  his  tutorship,' 
writes  one  ;  and  another,  '  he  made  a  man  feel  he 
was  more  than  one  in  a  long  list' 

Mr  E.  H.  Marsh,  C.M.G.,  a  former  pupil,  who 
has  kindly  sent  me  some  reminiscences,  writes. 


Memoir  xxxiii 

He  was  an  extraordinarily  sound,  just,  and  sympathetic 
judge  of  character.  No  one  valued  cleverness  and  originality 
more,  but  there  were  plenty  of  rather  commonplace  good 
fellows  whom  he  not  only  appreciated  for  their  '  English ' 
qualities,  but  thoroughly  liked.  I  remember  his  going 
through  the  list  of  freshers  on  his  '  side  '  one  year, — '  No,'  he 
said  when  he  came  to  the  end,  'they  are  not  a  galaxy';  but 
before  their  first  year  was  over  I  am  sure  he  had  made 
personal  friends  with  a  great  majority  of  them.  He  seemed 
rather  formidable  of  course  at  first  sight,  but  no  one  could 
mistake  the  perfect  simplicity  of  character  which  he  com- 
bined with  that  unusual  complication  of  mind ;  and  as  he 
always  steered  between  talking  down  to  people  and  talking 
over  their  heads,  everyone  was  soon  at  ease  with  him.  He 
used  to  have  croquet  parties  in  old  days,  and  though  I  don't 
remember  his  playing  himself,  he  used  to  throw  himself  into 
the  games  and  devise  complicated  tactics  for  the  players — 
the  balls  almost  became  characters  in  a  subtle  Euripidean 
plot. 

He  was  a  very  successful  president  at  smoking-concerts, 
etc.  I  remember  how  everyone  shrieked  with  laughter  when 
he  excused  himself  for  having  been  prevented  from  preparing 
an  after-dinner  speech  by  'a  succession  of  incalculable  circum- 
stances over  whom  I  had  no  control.'  He  was  never  on  a 
high  horse  for  a  moment ;  he  used  to  tell  delightedly  how, 
when  the  son  of  an  old  friend  paid  his  first  visit,  the  talk  fell 
on  Shelley,  and  Verrall  said  he  had  never  read  The  Revolt  of 
Islam.    'Ah,'  said  the  youth,  'that's  sheer  indolence  of  mind.' 

With  the  Tutorship  he  combined  his  ordinary 
work  as  lecturer.  This  was  not  usual,  but  he  made 
it  for  himself  a  condition  of  undertaking  the  office, 
and  managed  the  double  work  easily  for  most  of  the 
period  of  ten  years  over  which  the  Tutorship  usually 
extends. 

Verrall's    reputation   as  a    lecturer    and   teacher 


xxxiv  Memoir 

grew  year  by  year,  and  of  the  value  of  this  part  of 
his  work  there   is   but   one    opinion.     To  my  own 
\  lasting    regret,    I    heard    him    lecture    twice   only, 
I  although  he  was  my  most  intimate  friend  for  more 
I  than  thirty  years.     For  the  present  purpose,  how- 
*  ever,   this  matters  little,  for    I   am  fortunately  able 
to  give  the  reader  the  life-like  impression   of  him 
in  this   aspect  contained  in  a   letter  kindly  contri- 
buted by  Mr  F.  M.  Cornford,  Fellow  and  Lecturer 
of  Trinity  College.     The  following  pages  are  from 
Mr  Cornford's  pen,  down   to   the  place   where  his 
signature  appears  (p,  xlviii). 


Letter  from  Mr  F.  M.   Cornford. 

You  have  honoured  me  by  asking  me,  as  one 
who  was  first  a  pupil,  and  later  a  colleague,  of 
Verrall  at  Trinity  College,  to  write  some  account  of 
him  as  a  teacher  and  lecturer.  Several  Trinity  men 
have  helped  me  by  sending  their  impressions  of  him. 
They  all  agree,  as  we  should  expect,  in  saying  that 
it  was,  above  all  else,  his  personality  that  counted  ; 
one  or  two  of  them  speak  as  if  contact  with  him  had 
changed  the  whole  current  of  their  intellectual  life. 
To  describe  that  personality  is  another  matter,  but 
it  cannot  be  left  out  in  any  account  of  his  teaching 
and  lecturing. 

It  was  in  this  part  of  his  work  that  his  extra- 
ordinary gifts  had  fullest  play  ;  yet,  when  I  call  up 
my  memory  of  him,  it  is  neither  as  '  lecturer '  nor  as 


Memoir  xxxv 

'teacher'  that  I  can  think  of  him.  In  both  these 
words  there  is  an  undernote  of  pedantry  ;  and,  in 
the  rear  of  the  two  respectable  nouns  comes  a  flock 
of  woolly  epithets — 'painstaking,'  'conscientious,' 
and  the  rest — which  in  this  case  are,  all  of  them, 
thoroughly  deserved,  but  convey  nothing  of  the 
quality  and  distinction  of  Verrall's  genius.  He  did 
take  unlimited  pains,  not  only  because  he  was 
'conscientious,'  but  because  to  him  teaching  was  the 
means  of  expression  in  which  he  felt  the  passion  and 
the  joy  of  an  artist.  His  emotion  seemed,  at  least 
in  his  last  years,  to  have  fused  with  his  intellect  in 
a  way  that  is  rare  among  northerners  :  it  strengthened 
the  impression  that  he  must  have  had  a  strain  of 
Latin  blood — an  impression  given  by  his  dark 
colouring  and  the  particular  clear-cut  and  dignified 
beauty  of  his  features,  the  long  fine  aquiline  nose 
and  oval  cheeks.  This  passionate  intellectuality, 
moving  most  easily  at  a  height  of  rarefied  atmosphere 
where  few  could  follow  him,  combined  with  something 
aristocratic  in  his  nature  to  tinge  his  pupil's  admiration 
with  awe.  He  was,  to  many  people,  always  a  little 
terrifying ;  but  he  became  much  less  so  to  those  who 
found  out  that  he  genuinely  cared,  not  only  to  set 
their  minds  working,  but  to  win  their  sympathy. 
I  was  slow  to  discover  this :  it  was  long  before  it 
occurred  to  me  that  he  could  mind  what  I  thought 
about  his  theories,  or  want  others  to  share  his  delight 
in  the  things  he  enjoyed.  There  must  be  something 
in  the  relation  of  pupil  to  master  which  makes  it 
hard  to  perceive  such  a  need  ;  for  with  Verrall  it  was 

V.  L.  E.  c 


xxxvi  Memoir 

very  strong  and  characteristic,  and  to  a  great  extent 
the  secret  of  his  influence.  Without  it,  he  might 
have  been  too  remote  ;  but,  as  it  was,  it  moved  him 
to  exert  his  marvellous  powers  of  exposition  to  the 
utmost,  so  as  to  bring  the  slowest  minds  under  his 
spell. 

Perhaps  only  an  acute  reader  would  detect  this 
trait  in  his  books.  In  writing,  his  sensitive  courtesy 
never  allowed  him  to  forget  that  he  was  addressing 
strangers  ;  there  is  a  certain  formality  of  style,  which, 
together  with  his  scrupulous  use  of  words  and  the 
polish  of  his  dexterous  sentences,  would  leave  anyone 
who  had  merely  read  his  books  with  only  a  faint 
notion  of  what  it  was  to  hear  him  speak  to  an 
audience  whom  he  knew.  In  conversation,  again, 
there  was  scope  for  his  wit  and  for  that  adorable 
silliness  in  which  an  intellect  incapable  of  foolishness 
can  bubble  over ;  but  in  conversation  only  the 
pompous  can  be  eloquent ;  and  of  pompousness  he 
had  not  a  grain.  It  was  only  when  he  lectured  that 
he  could  let  loose  all  his  rhetorical  powers  and  yet 
keep  the  explosive  flash  and  exuberance  of  hi§  talk. 
On  informal  occasions  in  his  own  class-room,  his 
delight  in  some  absurdity  would  vent  itself  in  that 
strange  noise,  which  was  at  once  a  laugh,  a  crow, 
and  a  shriek.  But,  being  never  afraid  of  losing  his 
dignity,  he  never  lost  it ;  and,  for  all  his  need  of 
sympathy,  he  neither  flattered  his  hearers  nor  traded 
on  his  charm.  He  was  too  completely  absorbed  in 
the  point  he  was  making  :  and  this — whatever  it 
was,  from  a  subtlety  of  Euripidean  psychology  to 


Memoir  xxxvii 

a  detail  of  syntax — seemed  to  everyone,  because  it 
seemed  to  him,  the  only  thing  in  the  universe  that 
mattered  for  the  moment. 

Mr  E.  H.  Marsh  writes  : 

Did  you  hear  his  lectures  on  the  Choephori}  Those  are 
the  ones  I  have  the  clearest  recollection  of.  You  know  how 
he  used  to  sit,  in  a  subdued  frenzy  of  impatience,  waiting  till 
everyone  was  there  and  seated,  and  how,  if  the  noise  of 
settling  down  went  on  a  moment  after  he  had  hoped  it  was 
over,  there  was  an  agony,  shown  only  by  his  martyred  face 
and  the  drumming  of  his  pencil  on  the  desk.  There  was 
never  any  noise  when  once  he  had  begun,  and  the  high  rich 
shrillness  of  his  voice  came  streaming  out,  under  the  closed 
eyelids  in  his  ivory  face.  We  are  not  likely  to  see  anything 
more  resembling  the  phenomena  of  inspiration.  I  find  my 
mental  picture  has  completed  itself  with  curls  of  pale  blue 
smoke  from  a  tripod. 

He  could  work  us  up  into  excruciating  suspense,  as  when 
he  unfolded  Ridgeway's  theory  of  why  Electra  recognised 
Orestes'  hair  and  footmark.  And  how  beautifully  he  told  the 
story  of  the  man  who  had  only  time  to  write  '  Trapcari '  before 
he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  mud  avalanche !  It  was  all  far 
too  exciting  to  take  notes.  I  used  to  put  a  dot  under  each 
word  that  he  noticed,  and  he  put  everything  so  perfectly  that 
I  scarcely  ever  found  I  had  forgotten  what  the  dots  meant. 
I  was  usually  convinced  by  everything,  and  always  felt  at 
least  that,  if  Verrall's  own  theory  was  not  certain,  at  any  rate 
all  the  others  were  impossible. 

This  description  brings  out  what  is  quite  true, 
that  a  lecture  by  Verrall  was  definitely  a  performance, 
prepared  down  to  small  details  with  an  orator's  sense 
of  effect.  The  performance,  however,  was  not  a 
display  of  fireworks,  but   dramatic,   requiring  (as   I 

cz 


xxxviii  Memoir 

have  said)  the  sympathy,  and  therefore  the  under- 
standing, of  the  whole  audience.  This  is  not  an 
easy  end  to  achieve  in  lecturing  to  a  class  which 
covers  the  whole  range  of  ability  and  knowledge 
lying  between  the  first  and  last  divisions  of  a  Classical 
Honours  list.  To  bring  in  the  third  class  man, 
elementary  truths  must  be  mentioned  which  were 
known  to  the  first  class  man  years  before  he  left 
school.  How  to  instruct  the  most  backward  without 
boring  the  advanced,  is  a  problem  that  few  can 
solve.  Verrall  managed  it  so  cunningly  that  one 
could  never  see  how  it  was  done ;  he  neither  talked 
over  their  heads,  nor  yet  seemed  to  talk  down  to 
them.  It  was  partly  that,  in  lecturing  as  in  talking, 
he  had  the  art  of  thinking  aloud  and  taking  his 
audience  through  all  the  processes  by  which  he 
reached  his  conclusion.  Often  he  followed  what 
one  may  call  a  Ring-and-the-Book  method,  repeating 
the  same  thing  again  and  again,  but  so  as  to  put 
a  finer  edge  on  it  each  time.  This  was,  of  course, 
most  delightful  in  ordinary  talk,  because  then  he 
started  without  knowing  himself  where  he  would  get 
to  :  as  he  went  on,  the  idea  cropped  up  and  sprouted 
and  branched  and  flowered  under  your  eyes.  His 
wit  was  never  expressed  in  the  dry  drawl  of  an 
academic  epigram  ;  his  best  jokes  broke  cover  in  the 
heat  of  some  excited  discourse,  and,  once  they  were 
sighted,  he  spared  them  no  turn  or  double  of  the 
chase.  In  lecturing,  the  excitement  was  even  more 
intense,  for  he  only  allowed  his  pack  to  scent  the 
quarry  from  afar,  so  as  to  give  them  their  share  in 


Memoir  xxxix 

the  passion  of  pursuit  as  well  as  the  joy  of  being  in 
at  the  death. 

The  following  extract  is  from  a  letter  written  by 
one  of  his  most  recent  pupils,  Mr  J.  R.  M.  Butler : 

I  think  the  first  thing  about  Verrall's  lecturing  which 
struck  one  coming  from  school  was  the  way  in  which  he 
forced  you  to  take  no  literary  judgment  for  granted,  but 
to  justify  your  opinions  at  first  hand.  He  challenged  every- 
thing that  occurred  to  you  as  a  truism,  and  his  paradoxes 
could  not  be  answered  by  stock  arguments  out  of  books. 
And  by  discussing  with  you  on  equal  terms — as  he  did  in  the 
notes  he  scribbled  on  your  papers — he  gave  you  a  self-respect 
in  literary  things  and  made  you  ashamed  of  being  dishonest. 

That  was  one  thing — forcing  you  to  criticise.  Another 
was  the  desire  his  own  strange  theories  gave  you  to  discover 
new  and  hidden  things  yourself.  There  might  be  endless 
secrets  lurking  in  the  best-known  places,  and  Classics  became 
a  delightful  and  adventurous  thing. 

I  don't  think  we  believed  very  much  what  he  said ;  he 
always  said  he  was  as  likely  to  be  wrong  as  right.  But  he 
made  all  Classics  so  gloriously  new  and  living.  He  made  us 
criticise  by  standards  of  common  sense,  and  presume  that 
the  tragedians  were  not  fools,  and  that  they  did  mean  some- 
thing. They  were  not  to  be  taken  as  antiques  privileged 
to  use  conventions  that  would  be  nonsense  in  anyone  else.... 

He  was  good  about  keeping  in  touch  with  his  class. 
I  remember  once  he  sent  for  me  to  his  house,  to  ask  if 
I  could  suggest  any  reason  why  he  was  not  getting  satisfactory 
papers  done,  and  if  I  thought  he  ought  to  make  any  change 
in  his  own  method. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  this  writer's  '  I  don't 
think  we  believed  very  much  what  he  said,'  with 
Mr  Marsh's  '  I  was  usually  convinced  by  everything.' 
But  both  letters  equally  show  how  little  it  mattered 


xl  Memoir 

whether  this  or  that  statement  bore  the  cold  light 
of  reconsideration.  The  point  was  to  witness  the 
reaction  of  this  astonishing  intellect  upon  literature 
which  to  him,  and  to  all  whom  he  made  see  it  with 
his  eyes,  was  the  subtlest  form  of  art.  He  was,  I 
suppose,  one  of  the  first  lecturers  in  Cambridge  who 
resolutely  insisted  on  always  treating  the  Classics  as 
works  of  art  and  not  as  masses  of  so  much  Greek 
and  Latin,  from  which  samples  of  dubious  grammar 
could  be  extracted  and  held  up  with  the  warning : 
'  Not  for  imitation ! '  He  was  not,  by  modern 
standards,  a  very  learned  man  ;  he  knew  the  ancient 
writings  that  deserve  to  be  called  literature  up  and 
down,  but  he  was  a  little  impatient  when  he  was 
made  to  attend  to  archaeological  lore.  Not,  of 
course,  that  he  either  despised  or  neglected  it ;  but 
his  private  name  for  it  was  'stuffage.'  And,  as  a 
civilised  man,  with  a  preference  for  civilised  products, 
he  disliked  the  grim  remains  of  prehistoric  savagery 
which,  as  he  felt,  are  now  being  pinned  to  the  skirts 
of  Hellenism.  What  he  loved  to  analyse  was  the 
intended  qualities  of  technique  and  design,  and  all 
the  unconscious  effects  of  style.  He  realised  that 
a  Greek  play,  for  instance,  must  be  interpreted 
primarily  from  itself,  not  buried  under  a  load  of  more 
or  less  relevant  learning,  still  less  used  as  a  text  for 
a  general  disquisition  on  grammar.  This  may  seem 
obvious  enough  ;  but,  if  we  compare  his  editions, 
which  in  this  respect  are  like  his  lectures,  with  the 
commentaries  of  an  older  generation,  we  see  that  he 
was  one  of  the  first  who  made  it  obvious.     Many 


Memoir  xli 

generations  of  pupils  got  from  him  their  first 
revelation  of  literature  as  an  art.  At  school,  they 
had  necessarily — or  so,  at  any  rate,  it  used  to  be 
considered — spent  their  time  in  struggling  with  the 
difficulties  of  learning  to  read  and  write  the  ancient 
languages.  At  that  stage,  the  Classics  are  used  as 
textbooks  ;  and,  while  it  is  dimly  apparent  to  the 
schoolboy  that  as  textbooks  they  leave  much  to  be 
desired  both  in  subject  and  style,  it  is  not  always 
possible  for  him  to  see  that  their  authors  had  any 
other  purpose  in  view.  In  Verrall's  lecture-room 
the  light  broke  upon  them.  Some  speech  in  Euripides 
which  had  seemed  a  dry  tissue  of  commonplaces 
suddenly  began  to  glow  with  passion  and  flash  with 
wit ;  and  as  he  lit  up  the  large  outlines  of  the  piece 
and  showed  how  one  part  gained  its  meaning  from 
its  relation  to  another,  undreamed-of  prospects 
opened  out. 

Verrall's  manner  in  reciting  poetry  naturally  pro- 
duced different  effects  on  various  temperaments.  I 
quote  two  extracts  from  letters  which,  as  it  happens, 
refer  to  the  same  occasion.  Mr  H.  A.  Hollond 
writes  : 

Too  rare,  we  thought,  were  the  occasions  on  which  he 
exercised  his  wonderful  gift  of  reading  aloud  in  order  to 
illustrate  his  point.  No  word-music  has  left  with  me  so  vivid 
a  memory  as  his  rendering  of  Horace's  Solvitur  acris  hiems. 
I  feel,  as  if  it  were  yesterday  that  I  listened,  the  passionate- 
ness,  at  its  beginning,  of  the  sentence :  Pallida  mors  aequo 
pulsat  pede...  dying  away  into  the  whispered  sibilant  at  its 
close.  A  long  pause,  and  then  the  sad  but  calm  philosophy  : 
O  beate  Sesti,  vitae  summa    brevis   spem   nos  vetat  inchoare 


xlii  Memoir 

longam ;  and  last  of  all  the  courageous  change  of  mood  into 
the  forced  gaiety  about  young  Lycidas.  On  that  day  Verrall 
must  have  been  giving  us  much  of  himself. 

Another  correspondent  says : 

He  gave  you  a  new  idea  of  the  importance  of  language 
and  sound  in  poetry,  by  chanting  Horace,  Catullus,  etc.  It 
was  often  fantastic,  as  when,  in  Solvitur  acris  hiems,  he  said 
'  regumque  turres '  meant  the  approach  of  thunder,  or  that 
'  Hadria '  in  Donee  gratus  eram  ought  to  be  laughed — '  Ha- 
ha-ha-dria ' ;  but  it  made  you  believe  in  the  power  of  subtle 
word-building.  In  reciting  Vivamus,  mea  Lesbia,  he  showed 
wonderfully  how  the  change  of  sound  meant  change  of 
thought.  I  think  the  finest  of  all  was  when  he  declaimed 
Creusa's  monody  in  the  Ion,  at  a  University  Extension 
lecture;  Kai...(rds  -/'...d/xa^i/s  was  extraordinarily  dramatic. 

In  teaching  composition  to  individual  pupils, 
Verrall  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  school 
of  teachers  whose  favourite  words  are  'grinding' 
and  'grounding.'  Instead  of  setting  himself  to  fake 
a  goose  till  it  should  pass,  in  the  examiner's  eyes,  for 
a  swan,  he  was  content  to  help  the  creature  to  see 
what  it  was  to  be  a  swan,  and,  with  gentle  derision, 
when  it  was  deserved,  to  make  it  feel  what  a  goose 
it  had  been.  But,  if  he  pounced  upon  stupidity,  he 
watched  eagerly  for  every  symptom  of  intelligence, 
and  encouraged  it  with  generous  praise. 

He  had,  writes  Mr  Marsh,  the  most  scrupulous  sense 
I  have  ever  known  of  the  value  of  exactness  in  language. 
There  was  nothing  academic  in  this :  no  one  took  more 
pleasure  in  novelty  or  audacity  of  expression,  if,  on  close 
inspection,  it  was  justified  and  held  water;  but  he  would 
never  tolerate  an  approximation  to  the  meaning  required. 
I  suppose  very  few  of  the  greatest  writers  always  came  up  to 


Memoir  xliii 

his  standard !  Do  you  remember  how  particular  he  was 
about  not  misleading  the  reader  (except,  of  course,  on 
purpose,  when  he  loved  it)  as  to  the  form  a  sentence  was 
going  to  take?  Any  such  inelegance  would  cut  him  like 
a  knife. 

He  had  beautiful  manners  as  a  teacher,  and  never  made 
one  feel  a  fool  when  one  wasn't.  When  he  did,  it  was 
delightfully  done.  I  remember  dining  with  him  once,  as 
a  mature  wise  second-year  man,  to  help  with  three  freshmen. 
After  dinner  modern  novels  were  discussed,  and  one  of  the 
freshmen  contributed  his  view  as  follows  :  '  Well,  Dr  Verrall, 
I  must  avow  that  in  my  opinion  Edna  Lyall  is  the  first  of 
contemporary  novelists.'  Verrall  was  taken  aback  for  a 
moment ;  but  then  :  *  Well,  if  you  think  so,  you're  quite  right 
to  avow  it,  you  know...^?-. ..'  (the  long  high  ur,  between  a 
laugh  and  a  crow).  His  sense  of  justice  made  him  approve 
the  young  man's  candour,  but  his  humour  couldn't  resist  the 
handle  given  him  by  the  unlucky  word  '  avow.' 

Another  pupil  says  : 

I  think  that  Verrall's  personal  teaching  was  exactly  com- 
plementary to  the  stimulus  of  his  written  work.  Whereas  the 
latter,  whether  convincing  or  not,  teaches  one  to  try  to  see 
what  the  author  really  felt  and  meant,  conversely  his  teaching 
of  composition  showed  one  how  to  shape  one's  mind  to  the 
formal  mould  on  which  our  ideas  must  be  impressed  if  they 
are  to  seem  to  be  the  utterances  of  Greeks  or  Romans.  So 
many  scholars  who  write  admirable  Greek  or  Latin  are  quite 
unable  to  point  out  to  a  learner  what  are  the  features  which 
cause  it  to  be  idiomatic.  They  can  tell  you  intuitively  '  That 
won't  do,'  but  not  why  it  won't  do.  Verrall's  own  Greek  and 
Latin  did  not  always  seem  to  have  quite  the  quality  of  that  of 
some  of  his  colleagues  ;  he  sometimes  strained  the  language ; 
but  he  seized  unhesitatingly  the  merits  of  another's  fair  copy 
and  showed  exactly  why  an  effect  in  the  English  piece,  of 
emphasis  for  example,  could  only  be  produced  in  the  transla- 
tion by  a  device  of  a  completely  different  character.     For 


xliv  Memoir 

instance,  he  was  continually  pointing  out  the  use  which  can 
be  made  in  Latin  of  alliteration,  of  the  repetition  of  an 
important  word,  of  compact  phrasing.  In  correcting  a  verse 
composition  he  would  urge  us  to  look  at  the  structure  of  the 
piece  as  a  whole  and  to  avoid  uniformity  and  monotony  of 
rhythm,  whereas  so  many  teachers  content  themselves  with 
indicating  the  faults — grammatical,  syntactical  or  metrical — 
of  each  particular  sentence. 

I  have  the  feeling — do  you  know  whether  anyone  shares 
it  with  me  ? — that  Verrall,  however  enthusiastic  he  was  about 
Greek  literature,  nevertheless  understood  the  Latin  mind 
better,  or,  at  any  rate,  Latin  modes  of  thought  and  expression. 

The  extremely  difficult,  and  often  impossible, 
task  of  translating  English  poetry  into  Greek  or 
Latin  taxed  all  his  peculiar  powers,  and  he  rejoiced 
in  it.  If  he  had  been  imprisoned  till  such  time  as 
he  should  have  rendered  (say)  Stubbs'  Select  Con- 
I  stitutional  Charters  into  Greek  Iambics,  I  believe  he 
I  would  have  emerged  in  a  surprisingly  short  time, 
\  refreshed  in  spirit;  and  Stubbs'  treatise  would  thence- 
forth have  been  better  reading  than  it  is.  This 
curious  form  of  art,  beloved  of  English  scholars, 
provided  him  with  just  what  he  most  liked — a  strictly 
limited  problem,  only  to  be  solved  by  the  utmost 
stretch  of  dexterity  and  the  finest  sense  of  word- 
values  in  both  languages.  His  versions  were 
brilliant.  He  used  to  say  that  he  was  not  sure 
that  composition  could  be  taught  in  any  other  way 
than  by  the  master's  letting  the  learner  see  how  he 
did  it  himself. 

To  his   colleagues,   Verrall    was   generous    and 
considerate.     Staff    meetings    are    commonly    dull 


Memoir  xlv 

enough,  but  if  he  was  present,  there  was  sure  to  be 
fun.  One  never  knew  what  he  would  say  next,  or 
how  his  whimsical  humour  would  twist  the  banalities 
of  business  into  every  shape  of  absurdity.  He  had 
not,  at  least  when  I  knew  him,  the  temper  of  a 
reformer.  The  traditional  system  of  teaching 
satisfied  him  ;  within  its  limitations  he  found  room 
to  do  all  that  he  wanted.  But,  though  he  seldom 
initiated  changes,  he  never  obstructed,  but  always 
listened  readily  to  others  who  recommended  them, 
giving  his  support,  if  he  was  convinced.  He  was, 
all  his  life,  steadfast  to  Liberalism  in  politics,  and 
the  passion  that  went  with  his  reason  was  quickly 
fired  in  any  cause  of  justice  or  liberty;  yet  he  had  in 
his  composition  something  of  the  conservative.  With 
an  instinct  for  ceremony,  he  always  liked  a  decency 
to  be  observed.  This  feeling  for  tradition  was 
connected  with  his  devotion  to  the  College  to  which 
he  gave  his  best  work.  It  is  hard  to  tell  how  far  it 
is  possible  for  one  man  to  affect  the  life  of  an 
institution  where  the  generations  come  and  go  in 
rapid  succession ;  but  it  is  certain  that  Verrall's 
influence  will  be  felt  so  long  as  anyone  who  knew 
him  remains  connected  with  Trinity  College,  and 
his  lectures  and  books  have  permanently  affected 
the  tradition  of  teaching. 

Before  ending,  I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to 
recall  one  of  his  most  exquisite  and  characteristic 
performances.  It  was  at  a  College  meeting  which 
met  in  January,  1906,  to  discuss  certain  changes 
in  the  papers  set  in  the  Fellowship  Examination  at   ^ 


xlvi  Memoir 

Trinity.  The  old  '  Philosophy  papers '  were  to  be 
remodelled  and  their  range  extended  to  include 
questions  on  the  general  aspects  of  science,  art  and 
history.  Literature,  for  some  reason,  had  been 
omitted  from  this  list.  I  believe  Sir  Richard  Jebb 
had  intended  to  move  for  the  insertion  of  it ;  but 
\  before  the  meeting  was  held.  Sir  Richard  was  dead, 
and  Verrall  took  up  the  proposal  in  his  place.  He 
had  been  deeply  moved  by  J  ebb's  death.  He 
delivered  his  speech  sitting  in  his  chair  (he  was  too 
crippled  to  stand)  and,  as  usual,  with  closed  eyes. 
Ostensibly,  he  was  outlining  the  sort  of  questions 
about  literature  that  might  be  set  in  the  examination  ; 
they  were  questions,  it  is  true,  that  few  but  himself 
could  have  thought  of,  much  less  answered.  But  as 
the  speech  went  on,  his  audience  began  to  realise 
that  they  were  listening  to  a  funeral  oration,  though  he 
said  nothing  about  Jebb,  and  I  doubt  if  he  mentioned 
his  name.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  most  audacious 
thing  that  Verrall  ever  did.  College  meetings  are 
extremely  impatient  of  long  speeches,  and  he  ran 
the  risk  of  being  interrupted  at  any  moment  by 
an  appeal  to  the  chairman  to  check  his  irrelevancy. 
Who  else  could  have  trusted  his  power  of  holding 
such  an  audience,  and  who  else  could  have  succeeded  ? 
The  climax  came  when  he  contrived  to  recite  a 
passage  from  Massillon's  Oraison  Funebre  de  Louis 
I  le  Grand,  in  which  a  quotation  from  the  Vulgate  is 
f«  several  times  repeated  :  Quando  interrogaverint  vos 
\  filii  vestri,  dicentes :  Quid  sibi  volunt  isti  lapides  f 
His  pronunciation  of  French  was  singularly  pure ; 


Memoir  xlvii 

his  musical  intonation  rendered  the  melancholy  pomp 
of  echoing  sounds  and  slow,  massive  rhythms  ;  and 
he  made  the  recurrent  Quando  (pronounced,  of 
course,  with  the  French  nasal  n  and  a  long-drawn  a) 
strike  through  them  like  the  passing  bell  with  its 
harsh  clang  at  long  intervals  :  Quando  inter rogaverint 
vos  filii  vestri,  dicentes :  Quid sibivolunt  isti  lapides? 

With  my  correspondents'  help,  I  have  tried  to 
give  some  idea  of  Verrall's  influence  on  the  men  he 
taught.  But,  as  I  look  back,  what  fills  me  with 
admiration  and  gratitude  is  not  so  much  his  teaching 
as  the  splendid  spectacle  of  his  triumph  over  physical 
pain.  He  will  live  in  my  memory  as  he  was  in  the 
last  years  of  his  life,  when  his  mind  seemed  to  have 
withdrawn  inside  the  last  defences,  gallantly  defying 
the  encroaching  disease  that  had  crippled  and 
emaciated  his  frame.  Beaten  back  from  point  to 
point,  as  one  activity  after  another  was  taken  from 
him,  he  kept  the  flag  flying  as  gaily  as  ever.  When 
his  body  failed  him  he  treated  it  with  contempt. 
He  thrust  his  infirmity  aside  as  a  tiresome  accident, 
about  which  the  less  said  the  better.  Latterly,  his 
mind  was  like  a  fire  that  smouldered  through  hours 
of  bodily  exhaustion,  and  then  would  suddenly  shoot 
up  in  flashes  of  white  flame.  As  soon  as  this 
happened,  his  illness  was  utterly  ignored.  It  was 
impossible  to  remember  that  every  movement  was 
pain ;  he  made  one  forget  it,  as  he  forgot  it  himself. 
There  was  in  this  no  hint  of  an  heroical  pose. 
Probably  no  man  of  equal  rhetorical  gifts  ever  so 


xlviii  Me^noir 

completely  kept  rhetoric  out  of  his  life.  Nor  was  it 
resignation  ;  but  rather  the  magnificent  pride  of  the 
spirit  setting  its  heel  upon  the  flesh. 

Much  as  his  friends  have  learnt  from  him,  it 
is  above  all  for  this  last  conquest  of  a  courageous 
and  noble  mind  that  they  will  always  hold  his  memory 
in  reverence  and  honour. 

F.    M.    CORNFORD.  , 

Numerous  other  letters  received  from  former 
pupils  confirm  one  point  or  another  of  Mr  Corn- 
ford's  impression.     One  writes  : — 

There  was  no  one  of  his  generation  at  Cambridge  who 
meant  so  much  as  he  did  to  us  younger  men.  It  was  not 
only  the  immense  pleasure  and  stimulus  of  hearing  him 
either  on  his  own  subject  or  any  subject,  but  besides  that 
his  constant  kindness  and  readiness  to  give  sympathy  and 
advice  were  a  very  great  help  and  a  thing  for  which  I  shall 
always  be  grateful. 

And  another,  to  the  same  effect : — 

My  intellectual  debt  to  him  is  greater  than  I  can  estimate ; 
but  even  more  than  the  brilliance  of  his  mind,  it  was  the 
fearless  directness  of  his  character  and  the  inspiring  ardour 
of  his  enthusiasm  which  endeared  him  to  those  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  come  under  his  influence. 

Another  writes   that,  to   know   Verrall    'meant  an 
I      awakening  all  round,  and  something  of  "  the  rapture 
of  the  forward  view."  ' 

In  1889  Verrall  published  his  Agamemnon  of 
Aeschylus,  and  in  the  general  judgement  the  book 


Me7noir  xl 


IX 


at  once  established  him  in  a  position  of  supremacy 
among  the  poet's  interpreters.  The  position  was 
confirmed  later  by  his  Choephori  and  Eumenides, 
but  it  was  assured  to  him  by  this  work  alone.  As 
an  instrument  of  expression,  for  flexibility  and  range, 
for  delicacy  and  subtlety  as  for  force,  the  Greek 
language  confessedly  has  no  rival.  To  judge  from 
his  work  on  Aeschylus,  Verrall  would  seem  to  have 
come  near  to  grasping  its  utmost  possibilities.  By 
a  fearless  recognition  of  the  boldness  and  pregnancy 
of  Aeschylean  phraseology,  and  of  the  freedom  of 
Aeschylean  syntax,  he  enlarged  our  conceptions  of 
the  whole  language.  He,  so  to  speak,  extended  its 
reach.  We  may  sometimes  be  tempted  to  think 
that  he  claims  for  Aeschylus  a  latitude  of  expression 
which  the  poet  would  not  have  claimed  for  himself, 
but  when  that  occurs,  it  may  serve  to  give  us  pause 
before  condemning,  to  recall  that  Tennyson  in  a 
certain  place  wrote 

'and  felt  the  boat  shock  earth.' 

If  he  thought  of  strike  (with  the  poet,  however, 
la  parole  suit  la  pensde),  he  rejected  it,  to  give  us 
something  peculiarly  Tennysonian  and  better,  if  we 
can  see  it, — but,  like  much  in  Aeschylus,  at  once 
audacious  and  *  unexampled  ' !  On  the  other  hand, 
Verrall's  surer  judgement  rejected  not  a  few  ex- 
travagances, both  of  language  and  grammar,  which 
less  discriminating  editors  would  father  on  the  poet; 
nor  could  he  be  beguiled  into  believino"  that  what 
was    on    universal   principles   false    in    taste,    might 


1  Memoir 

nevertheless  be  Aeschylean.  Again,  not  once  nor 
twice  nor  thrice,  his  mere  command  of  the  language 
enabled  him  to  give  meaning  to  what  others  had 
found  untranslatable  or  unsatisfactory  ;  and  in  many 
a  familiar  passage  his  more  than  Oedipodean  acute- 
ness  as  a  solver  of  riddles  detected  a  point  or  allusion 
which  had  hitherto  been  missed.  Not  a  few  passages 
he  restored  to  sense  by  no  more  than  a  change  in 
the  punctuation  or  re-division  of  the  words. 

But  the  unique  value  of  the  book  consists  in 
something  more  than  all  this.  If  any  new  thing 
was  less  expected  than  another  in  connexion  with 
the  Agamemnon  (as  with  the  Septeiu),  it  was  the 
discovery  that  our  conception  of  the  plot  was  in 
essential  features  wholly  wrong.  Verrall  declared 
that  it  was,  and  propounded  a  view  which  fell  on 
the  classical  world  like  a  bomb-shell. 

No  edition  known  to  me  ventures  to  tell  without  disguise 
the  story  of  the  Agamemnon.  I  do  not  of  course  mean 
merely  that  the  story  told  is  not  correct.  This  would  be 
to  assume  the  very  point  we  are  to  discuss.  I  mean  that 
the  story,  as  it  is  commonly  understood,  is  not  told  without 
concealment  and  practical  misrepresentation. 

With  cruel  frankness  he  makes  good  these 
editorial  laches.  He  relates  the  story  as  it  '  is 
still,  with  whatever  dissatisfaction,  accepted,'  and 
goes  on  to  ask, 

Is  it  possible  that  the  story  above  told  really  represents 
the  intention  of  Aeschylus?  That  a  man  who  had  spent 
most  of  his  life  in  writing  plays,  when  he  came  to  lay  down  the 
lines  of  his  supreme  masterpiece  should  encumber  himself  at 


Memoir  li 

starting  with  absurdities  so  glaring,  so  dangerous,  so  gratuitous, 
as  this  fable  exhibits  in  all  its  parts  ? 

To  sweep  away  any  lingering  traces  of  delusion 
as  to  what  the  story  amounts  to  when  seen  in  its 
naked  simplicity,  he  adds  : — 

As  I  see  no  reason  to  think  that  the  popular  mind  in 
the  time  of  Aeschylus  was  in  this  respect  very  different  from 
the  popular  mind  now,  I  will  offer  a  Socratic  parallel,  not  the 
less  just  because  it  is  homely. — Scene  :  A  room  in  London. 
Time :  Early  morning.  Servants  discovered  preparing  the 
room.  From  their  conversation  it  appears  that  the  master 
of  the  house  has  been  for  some  time  in  Africa,  and  that 
the  conduct  of  his  wife,  in  relation  to  a  person  too  often 
received,  is  causing  them  much  anxiety  and  a  strong  desire 
for  the  master's  return.  They  have  learnt  with  satisfaction 
that  their  mistress  is  expecting  soon  to  hear  that  he  is  on  his 
way  home.  A  telegram  arrives  for  the  lady,  who  presently 
appears  and  informs  them  that  it  is  from  her  husband,  and 
was  despatched  last  night  from  Lake  Nyanza.  Being  asked 
by  a  servant  whether  there  is  a  telegraph  at  the  Lake,  she 
explains  that  the  wires  have  just  been  extended  so  far  by 
the  result  of  her  husband's  enterprise.  He  intends  to  return 
forthwith.  She  wonders  what  sort  of  breakfast  he  is  having 
in  Africa,  and  hopes  that  he  will  not  meet  with  any  accident 
on  the  road  back.  The  table  is  laid,  and  the  lady  is  sitting 
down  to  it,  when  there  is  a  ring  at  the  bell.  Enter  the 
husband's  courier,  who  announces  that  his  master  is  detained 
for  a  few  minutes  at  the  terminus,  but  is  coming  immediately. 
He  dilates  upon  the  discomforts  of  the  overland  route  and 
the  breaking-down  of  an  Italian  train.  The  husband  follows 
accordingly.  He  describes  the  success  of  his  explorations. 
The  lady  receives  him  with  rapture  but  without  any  surprise. 
In  conversation  with  him  she  says  nothing  of  the  telegram, 
nor  he  to  her.  And  so  ends  the  first  scene. — Now,  at  this 
point  of  the  story  we  might  either  know  the  key  to  the  riddle 
v.  L.  E.  d 


Hi  Memoir 

(if  the  author  were  dramatizing  a  popular  novel)  or  we  might 
wait  for  the  solution  in  the  sequel.  But  what  would  be  the 
bewilderment  and  the  dismay  of  the  audience  if  it  should 
prove  that  there  was  no  solution,  and  that  the  mysterious 
telegram,  introduced  with  so  much  circumstance,  had  no 
bearing  on  the  story  whatever  !  I  submit  that  this  is  not 
the  way  in  which  the  crowns  of  the  drama  may  be  won,  and 
that  the  most  rigorous  proof  should  be  required  before  we 
assume  that  it  ever  was.     (p.  xxiv.) 

Verrall's  solution  of  the  tangle  will  be  found  in  his 
Introduction,  which,  as  also  all  the  Euripidean 
volumes,  can  be  readily  understood  and  enjoyed 
even  by  those  who  have  no  knowledge  of  Greek. 
The  power  with  which  the  exposition  is  worked 
out,  and  the  skill  with  which  the  threads  of  the 
argument  are  gathered  and  combined,  alike  from 
innumerable  hints  scattered  through  the  play  and 
from  the  necessities  of  the  whole  situation,  are 
beyond  praise.  It  is  a  masterpiece  of  induction, 
and  we  are  left  staggered,  but  convinced  and 
satisfied.  The  play  which  we  had  admired  for 
little  more  than  the  great  scenes  which  follow  the 
king's  entrance — being  a  little  bored  (to  tell  the 
truth)  by  the  want  of  dramatic  interest  in  what 
precedes,  despite  the  magnificence  of  the  poetry — 
we  now  see  has  a  close-knit  unity  which  keeps  us 
enthralled  from  beginning  to  end. 

It  is  notoriously  difficult  to  lay  aside  deep-rooted 
prejudices,  and  accordingly  this  account  of  the  plot 
was  greeted  by  some  with  murmurs  of  disapproba- 
tion or  doubt ;  but  it  may  be  safely  prophesied  that 
the  Byzantine  view  of  the  Agamemnon  will  not  again 


Memoir  liii 

find  a  serious  champion.  There  is  one  little  dilemma 
to  be  faced  by  such  a  defender  at  the  outset.  If 
Verrall's  story  is  not  what  Aeschylus  had  in  his 
mind,  then  some  Maxwell  'sorting  demon/  with  a 
literary  turn,  must  have  been  having  the  time  of  his 
life,  as  he  popped  in  note  after  note  of  his  own  leit- 
motiv^ in  faultless  accord,  under  the  poet's  very 
nose !  The  suggestion,  made  some  three  years  ago, 
that  an  interval  of  several  days  may  be  assumed 
between  vv.  493  and  494,  is  sufficiently  condemned 
by  an  examination  of  the  text  at  this  point, — to  say 
nothing  of  other  serious  objections. 

In  the  editions  of  the  Choephori  (1893)  3-"^^ 
the  Eumenides  (1908)  there  is  the  same  luminous 
exposition  of  details,  fresh  evidence  of  that  charac- 
teristic faculty  of  seeing  in  one  view  the  drama  and 
its  purpose,  the  same  skill  in  presenting  it  to  the 
reader,  the  same  incomparable  dramatic  instinct. 
Who  but  Verrall  could  have  offered  such  a  solution 
as  he  offers  of  the  problem  raised  by  the  sudden 
conversion  of  the  Erinyes  ? 

Ath.  {coming  closer).  I  am  not  to  be  wearied  of  pleading 
with  thee  what  is  good  [etc.]. 

{She  is  now  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  speaks  as  for 
them  alone.) 

Ah,  if  sacred  Suasion  be  holy  unto  thee,  the  appeasement 
of  my  tongue,  the  soothing...  {Ner  voice  ceases  to  be  heardy 
and  for  a  while  she  seems  to  commune  with  them  in  silence. 
They  become  suddenly  calm,  and  show  in  their  behaviour  a 
great  a7ve.) 

...So  thou  wilt  belike  abide;... 

We  cannot  be  sure  that  this  is  the  manner  in 

d2 


liv  Memoir 

which  the  wondrous  reconciliation  was  effected,  but 
who  would  not  be  profoundly  grateful  for  the  con- 
ception, and  that,  if  only  because  it  inspired  the 
following  noble  and  eloquent  passage  ? 

Now  here  [in  the  conversion  of  the  Erinyes]  is  a  solution 
indeed,  a  solution  not  of  any  particular  casuistical  or  judicial 
problem  (we  may  notice  that  after  the  trial  the  specific  crime 
of  Orestes  is  ignored  completely),  but  of  the  universal  problem, 
the  discordance  of  principles,  the  antithesis  of  Right  against 
Right.  If  the  Inexorable  can  indeed  be  pacified,  then  there 
is  somewhere  One  Right,  one  universal  principle,  something 
upon  which  '  the  fallen  house  of  Justice '  may  be  builded 
again.  Let  us  but  know  why  this  pacification  takes  place, 
upon  what  grounds  and  by  what  persuasions,  and  we  shall 
be  admitted  to  the  very  secret  of  things.  We  turn  to  the 
speech  which  effects  all  this,  but — no  explanation  appears. 
At  a  certain  point  it  is  assumed  by  Athena  that  the  ad- 
versaries are  content,  as  they  prove  to  be ;  it  is  assumed 
that  this  content  proceeds  from  something  just  said  or  done. 
And  just  before  stands — an  unfinished  sentence.  Ah,  if 
sacred  Suasion  be  holy  unto  thee,  the  appeasement  of  my 
tongue,  and  the  soothing....  Thou,  then,  wilt  belike  abide,  or 
if  it  should  be  thy  will  not  to  abide — but  that  is  not  their  will. 
A  hiatus  (it  would  appear),  an  injury  singularly  deplorable, 
has  obliterated  the  words  of  the  Eternal  and  the  wisdom  of 
the  Most  High.  But  never  (we  may  hope)  were  they  written. 
It  is  a  gap  which  Aeschylus  could  no  more  have  filled,  nor 
would,  than  Dante  could  have  told  us  what  was  the  song 
which,  on  the  Mount  of  Purgatory,  hailed  the  forgiveness  of 
sin  and  the  restoration  of  man  :  '  I  understood  it  not,  nor 
here  is  sung  the  hymn  which  that  folk  then  sang.'  Not 
Aeschylus,  nor  any  one  who  had  felt,  like  him,  that  '  burden 
of  thought '  which  can  be  lifted  away  only  in  the  name  of 
Zeus,  would  pretend  to  tell  us  what  thought  or  thing  it  was 
with  which  Athena  won  the  Erinyes.  He  that  would  put  it 
in  words,  in  his  own  words,  would  not  be  worth  our  hearing 


Memoir  Iv 

Such  a  conciliation,  if  it  is  to  command  faith,  cannot  and 
must  not  be  explicit.  Something  there  must  be  which  by 
men  is  not  understood  nor  even  heard,  some  place  for  the 
miraculous,  mystic,  and  incomprehensible,     (p.  xxxii.) 

And  this — 

Indeed  the  strongest  reason  for  believing,  provisionally 
and  until  the  contrary  is  proved,  that  the  mystic  and 
miraculous  conversion  of  Vengeance  to  Grace,  the  sudden 
revelation  that,  in  some  incomprehensible  way.  Vengeance 
and  Grace  are  the  same,  punishment  and  prosperity  parts 
and  aspects  of  one  Providence,  was  the  thought,  substantially 
new  and  original,  of  Aeschylus  himself,  is  its  profound  un- 
likeness  and  immense  superiority  to  the  common  religious 
products  of  the  Greek  mind.  It  has  the  stamp  of  Aeschylus, 
perhaps  the  only  Greek  who  shows  a  strong  genius  for 
religious  invention,  not  metaphysical,  or  moral,  or  artistic, 
or  imaginative,  or  ritual,  or  anything  else  but  religious. 
The  conversion  of  the  Erinyes  is  a  religious  idea,  awful, 
dark,  and  intensely  satisfying,     (p.  xliii.) 

In  the  summer  of  1890,  at  the  request  of  the 
Syndics  of  the  University  Press,  and  with  a  view 
to  the  performance  of  the  play  at  Cambridge  in  the 
coming  term,  he  prepared  and  pubHshed  an  edition 
of  the  Ion.  The  commentary,  though  intentionally 
limited  in  scope,  gives  an  adequate  explanation  of 
the  text,  and  as  was  to  be  expected,  throws  new 
light  on  a  considerable  number  of  passages.  The 
dialogue  is  admirably  translated  into  blank  verse, 
with  occasional  deviations  into  the  rhyming  couplet, 
and  the  lyric  portions  of  the  play  are  rendered  in 
a  variety  of  metres  adapted  to  the  subject-matter  of 
each.     The  following  is  the  version  of  the  passage 


Ivi  Memoir 

beginning  "^Xl  Hai/os  OaKTJixara  (v.  492),  and  for  spirit, 
music,  and  rhythm,  would  seem  to  be  hardly  capable 
of  being  bettered.  The  reader  will  observe  the 
felicity  with  which  the  sad  note  of  the  thrice- 
recurring  w  of  the  original  (^fl  Hav6<i...a>  lidv... 
w  jxeXea)  is  echoed  in  the  burden  of  the  version. 

O  Athens,  what  thy  clifif  hath  seen  ! 
The  northward  scar,  Pan's  cavern-seat. 
With  rocks  before  and  grassy  floor, 
Where  dancing  tread  the  Aglaurids'  feet 
Their  triple  measure  on  the  green 

Neath  Pallas'  fane, 
Whene'er  the  god  in  his  retreat 
Times  on  the  reed  a  quavering  strain : 

O  Athens,  what  thy  cliff  hath  seen ! 
It  saw  the  ravish'd  maiden's  pang. 
The  babe  she  bare  to  Phoebus  there 
Cast  to  the  talon  and  the  fang. 
There  on  the  same  insulting  scene ! 

Of  any  born 
'Twixt  god  and  man  none  ever  sang. 
None  ever  told,  but  tales  forlorn. 

O  Athens,  what  thy  cliff  hath  seen  ! 

The  chief  interest  of  the  book,  however,  lies  in 
the  Introduction,  where  we  have  the  earliest  of 
those  studies  in  the  work  of  Euripides  by  which 
Verrall  attained  what  is  perhaps  his  greatest  and 
most  lasting  distinction.  For  these  studies  have 
achieved  a  result  which,  in  all  its  circumstances,  is 
unique  in  the  history  of  literature.  The  admiration 
of  the  poet's  contemporaries  for  his  dramas  knew 
no  bounds,  and  the  judgement  of  the  whole  ancient 
world,  Greek  and  Roman,  ranked  him,  howsoever 


Memoir  Ivii 

different  the  quality  of  his  genius,  as  the  equal  of 
Aeschylus  and  Sophocles.  His  right  to  the  place 
was  not  discussed,  it  was  taken  for  granted.  In 
the  popular  favour  he  stood  far  above  his  two 
great  rivals,  and  the  picture  drawn  by  Browning 
in  Balaustiofis  Adventure,  though  heightened  by 
poetical  expression,  represents  in  spirit  an  en- 
thusiasm which  was  universally  felt.  In  contrast 
to  the  ancient  estimate  of  Euripides,  the  modern 
world,  since  the  Revival  of  Learning,  while  not 
blind  to  his  merits  as  a  poet,  found  him  as  a  play- 
wright, in  almost  every  one  of  his  extant  works, 
frankly  beneath  contempt.  He  was  a  botcher  and 
bungler,  a  mere  patcher  of  theatrical  quilts  which 
lacked  all  unity  of  design. 

Story !    God  bless  you,  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir  \ — 

or  at  least  he  could  not  tell  it  intelligibly,  or  without 
making  it  impossible  and  ridiculous.  When  he 
seemed  to  be  desiring  to  rouse  the  hearer  to 
emotion,  with  incredible  perversity  or  stupidity  he 
would  kill  the  nascent  feeling  by  a  dash  of  the 
grotesque.  Even  when  he  had  touched  on  some- 
thing like  success,  he  would  spoil  his  own  effect, 
and  you  would  have  the  preposterous  god  or 
goddess  contradicting  from  the  clumsy  machine  all 
you  had  been  led  to  expect,  and  failing  to  unravel 
the  tangled  skein  after  all.  In  a  word,  what  stood 
for  the  plot  did  not  work  ;  and  the  dubious  thing 
which  he  offered  as  drama,  though  'good  in  parts,' 
as  a  whole  failed  to  please,   if  it  did  not  actually 


Iviii  Memoir 

stink  in  the  critical  nostril.  It  was  left  for  Verrall 
to  do  for  the  whole  work  of  Euripides  what  he  had 
done  for  the  Agamemnon  and  Septem — to  solve  the 
enigma  by  recovering  the  old-world  point  of  view, 
and  to  justify  the  ancient  enthusiasm  by  showing 
that  we  have  before  us  not  only  sane,  peculiarly 
sane,  art  but  also  a  supreme  artist. 

Thus  in  the  prologue  of  the  Ion  Hermes  tells  us 
that  Apollo  intends  to  guide  the  day's  events  in  a 
particular  way  :  in  the  sequel  these  events  go  their 
own  way,  in  defiance  of  the  intention  of  the  prophetic 
god.  In  the  course  of  the  play  the  Oracle  makes 
a  certain  statement  about  Ion's  parentage,  but  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  furnished  by  the  Delphian 
authorities  themselves,  convinces  the  boy  later  that 
the  statement  is  false.  When  he  realises  the  contra- 
diction his  simple  soul  is  '  horrified  ' — -for  the  oracle 
m,ust  have  lied — and  he  turns  to  enter  the  shrine 
and  ask  Apollo  for  an  explanation.  At  this  moment 
Athena  appears  above  the  temple  roof.  The 
following  account  is  no  travesty  of  the  speech  which 
she  proceeds  to  deliver  ;  Verrall  has  only  added  the 
touch  of  an  inimitable  raillery  to  the  common  im- 
pression of  its  effect. 

Such  being  the  knot  to  be  solved,  let  us  now  consider  the 
solution.  To  say  that  Athena  cuts  it,  without  untying,  is  to 
pay  her  an  unmerited  compliment.  She  does  not  touch  the 
nodus  at  all.  Whatever  she  said,  how  could  she  ?  This 
goddess,  or  this  part  of  a  goddess  (for  we  seem  not  to  be 
shown  the  whole  of  her,  though  we  doubtless  see  all  that 
there  is),  this  divine  TTjOoo-wTroi',  heaved  up  by  the  machine,  is 
herself  a  walking  or  rather  a  swinging  fallacy,  a  personified 


Memoir  lix 

ignoratio  elenchi\  A  goddess  of  Olympus,  and  a  goddess 
'rising  above'  the  Delphian  temple,  is  to  give  bail  for  the 
Oracle  of  Delphi !  And  where  then  is  the  security  for  herself? 
As  is  the  speaker,  so  is  her  speech.  It  ignores  the  question, 
and  Ion  bluntly  tells  her  so.  More  than  half  of  it  is  spurious 
legend,  complimentary  to  Athens  but  nothing  to  the  matter. 
In  the  other  half  she  repeats,  point  for  point  and  almost 
without  change,  the  explanations  which  Creusa  has  already 
offered  in  vain,  and  which  now  fall  the  flatter  after  exposure. 
Her  apology  comes  to  this  :  '  Yes,  the  facts  are  precisely  as 
you  can  hardly  believe.  You,  Ion,  are  the  son  of  Creusa  and 
Phoebus,  who  is  indeed  the  selfish,  brutal  being  that,  on  that 
hypothesis,  he  has  been  freely  called.  (In  fact  it  is  because 
he  is  ashamed  to  show  himself,  that  I  am  here.)  He  did  tell, 
and  through  his  oracle,  the  lie  in  question ;  his  motive,  if  that 
mattered,  was  no  better,  but  a  trifle  worse,  than  Creusa  has 
said ;  and  he  does  propose  to  save  his  credit  by  the  quirk 
which  has  been  treated  with  such  contempt.  As  to  the 
question  asked,  whether  then  the  Delphian  oracle  is  worthy 
of  credence  or  not,  I  do  not  choose  to  answer  directly ;  but 
I  leave  you  to  suppose,  if  you  please,  that  it  is  not.  I  have 
only  to  add,  that  (since  Ion  will  grow  up  into  an  excellent 
father  and  hero  of  the  Ionian  race)  all  this  is  of  no  importance, 
and  you  may  all  go  happily  home,  convinced  that  revelation 
is  a  fraud,  and  faith  a  delusion.  And  of  this  there  is  no 
shadow  of  doubt,  no  possible,  probable  shadow  of  doubt, — 
for  I  am  Pallas  Athena  ! ' 

No  wonder  that  she  produces  no  effect !     (p.  xvii.) 

Clearly  this  sort  of  thing  won't  do.  By  '  this 
sort  of  thing'  I  mean,  not  the  echo  of  the  Gondoliers 
— by  which,  as  one  grieves  to  learn,  a  certain 
Professor  was  inexpressibly  shocked — but  Athena's 
speech.  It  won't  do.  But  what  if  it  was  not  meant 
to  do  ?  What  if  in  fact  the  Ion  conveys,  beneath 
a    veil    thin    enough   for    sharp    eyes    to    pierce,    a 


Ix  Memoir 

deliberate  attack  upon  Delphi  and  the  Olympian 
religion?  Euripides  was  notoriously  a  'free-thinker': 
by  putting  the  gods  on  the  stage  he  persuades  the  men 
that  they  dont  exist,  is  the  complaint  of  a  woman  in 
Aristophanes.  Strip  the  play  of  its  divine  prologue 
and  finale,  and  what  have  we  left  ?  A  perfectly 
constructed  drama  in  which  every  point  tells,  and 
from  which  every  supernormal  element  is  absent, 
but  at  the  same  time  a  drama  in  which  the  purely 
human  story  is,  with  consummate  skill,  so  handled 
that  Delphi  is  plainly  discredited  as  a  fountain  of 
truth.  As  the  pious  Ion  perceives  to  his  dismay,  it 
can  lie.  This  discovery,  however,  which  forms  the 
climax  of  the  play  proper,  has  more  than  a  polemical 
purpose  ;  it  contributes  to  the  pathos  of  the  story  no 
less  than  the  sufferings  and  anguish  of  Creusa.  For 
the  shattering  of  a  cherished  religious  faith  is  in  itself 
a  sufficiently  tragic  experience,  and  this  Euripides 
plainly  meant  to  show.  Indeed,  it  is  Ion's  case, 
rather  than  Creusa's,  which  would  seem  to  have 
lain  closest  to  the  poet's  heart ;  and  I  hazard  a 
conjecture  that  as  he  drew  this  touching  picture  of 
the  boy's  distress,  he  was  recalling  the  shock  which 
had  *  confounded '  his  own  youthful  soul  when  its 
early  beliefs  were  swept  away. 

Such  is  the  scope  and  purpose  of  the  Ion,  as 
revealed  by  Verrall's  analysis  :  it  is  an  impeachment 
of  Delphi  and  all  its  works.  The  attack  is  covert, 
indeed,  but  it  is  so  by  preference  as  much  as  by 
necessity,  for  Euripides  had  in  his  armoury  a  better 
weapon  than  open  invective,  and  one  in  the  use  of 


Memoir  Ixi 

which  he  is  unsurpassed.  He  knew  the  deadly  effect 
of  innuendo,  and  Verrall  aptly  sums  up  his  method  in 
a  quotation  from  George  Meredith,  prefixed  to  one 
of  his  later  essays  : — '  Yes,  dear  Van !  that  is  how 
you  should  behave.  Imply  things.'  And  though 
two  gods  are  introduced  to  deliver  speeches,  this  is 
no  more  than  a  concession  to  convention,  and  one 
that  the  poet  is  little  loth  to  make,  for  the  prologue 
and  finale  which  he  maliciously  claps  on  to  his 
already  finished  play  are  so  contrived  as  to  give  the 
coup  de  grace.  As  our  bloodthirsty  old  drill-sergeant 
used  to  say  at  bayonet  practice,  'one  half-turrn  to 
the  right  makes  the  wound  incurable' 

What  contemporaries  of  Euripides,  who  shared 
his  views,  might  have  thought  and  said  of  such 
a  Day  at  Delphi  as  the  Ion  represents,  Verrall  has 
embodied  in  an  epilogue.  This  epilogue  is  dramatic 
in  form,  and  represents  a  conversation  between  the 
Delphian  authorities  and  some  Athenians  who  have 
been  silent  spectators  of  all  that  has  taken  place.  It 
extends  to  no  less  than  twenty-two  pages,  and  is  in 
its  kind  a  perfect  work  of  art ;  one  knows  not  whether 
to  admire  most  its  originality  as  a  conception,  or  its 
brilliance  and  truly  Athenian  wit.  To  read  it  is  to 
receive  a  positive  thrill  of  intellectual  delight.  When 
the  talk  is  over,  the  scene  is  suddenly  changed  :  we 
are  in  Athens,  and  the  curtain  has  just  fallen  on 
Euripides'  play. 

An    Athenian   {sadly).     And   is   there    then    no   god,  O 
Euripides  ? 

Euripides.      Neither   that   do   I    say,    or   have   said,    O 


Ixii  Memoir 

Chaerephon.  Whence,  or  from  whom,  came  to  that  feast 
the  detecting  dove  ?  Who  sent  that  dumb  creature  to  save, 
at  the  cost  of  her  own  *  incomprehensible  agony,'  the  Ufe  of 
the  kind-hearted  lad  who  was  sorry  to  kill  the  birds?  Apollo, 
Chance,  Providence?  We  know  not.  Only,  for  the  gods' 
sake,  do  not  think  that  it  was  the  ravisher  of  Creusa. 

Which  is  more  likely  ?  That  this  frame  of  the  heavens, 
this  truly  divine  machine,  is  governed  by  beings  upon  whom 
our  poor  nature  cries  shame ;  or  that  a  knot  of  men,  backed 
by  prejudice  and  tempted  by  enormous  wealth,  should  try 
by  cunning  to  keep  up  a  once  beneficent  or  harmless  delusion 
for  a  little  while  longer  ? 

For  a  little  while  !  Xpofta  yXv  to,  twv  ^cwv  ttods,  cis  tcAo^ 
8'  ovK  dcrdevrj.  Good  night.  Let  us  go  to  our  chambers  and 
pray,  to  Pallas,  if  you  must,  to  Zeus  if  you  will,  but  let  us 
pray  at  least  to  the  Father  of  men  and  women  and  beasts 
and  birds  of  the  air,  and  give  the  verdict  according  to  our 
hearts,     (p.  xlii.) 

The  recognition  of  a  double  purpose  in  the 
Euripidean  drama  forms  the  basis  of  the  work  by 
which  Verrall  has  vindicated  Euripides  as  a  dramatic 
genius  inferior  to  none,  and  has  rehabihtated  indi- 
vidually more  than  half-a-dozen  of  his  plays.  He 
contends  that  while,  as  a  poet,  Euripides  found 
sufficient  material  for  his  art  in  the  play  of  human 
passion  and  the  tangle  of  life,  he  saw  his  way  to 
combining  with  this  an  attack  on  a  theology  and 
religious  practices  which  were,  in  his  judgement, 
both  puerile  and  harmful, — or  rather  that  the  latter 
was  his  life's  purpose,  which  the  stage  was  em- 
ployed to  subserve.  In  the  conjunction  he  con- 
trived to  strike  a  tragic  note  such  as  had  not 
been  heard  before,  and  the  skill  with  which  he  has 


Memoir  Ixiii 

united  the  two  aims  leaves  him  in  this  respect 
absolutely  without  a  rival.  If  we  did  not  see  this 
before,  it  is  because  we  did  not  know  the  man 
Euripides  as  Verrall  has  taught  us  to  know  him  ; 
we  had  failed  to  recognise  the  full  import  of  hints, 
and  more  than  hints,  scattered  broad-cast  over  his 
works.  And  if  any  do  not  now  recognise  or  care 
for  this  contexture  of  tragedy  and  wit,  then  Euripides 
did  not  write  for  them  ;  but  the  enjoyment  of  those 
who  do,  comes  as  near  as  the  lapse  of  ages  will 
permit  to  that  of  the  poet's  contemporaries  and  the 
ancient  world.  All  thanks  and  homage  to  him  who 
has  placed  the  key  to  it  in  our  hands. 

After  the  publication  of  the  Choephori  in  1893 
the  Euripidean  studies  were  resumed,  and  bore  fruit 
in  Euripides  the  Rationalist,  which  appeared  in  1895. 
The  Alcestis,  Ion  (for  a  second  time)  and  Iphigenia 
in  Taurica  are  subjected  to  an  exhaustive  analysis, 
and  the  general  result  is  to  establish  that  view  of 
Euripides  as  a  dramatist  which  is  indicated  by  the 
title  of  the  volume,  and  which  had  already  been 
shown  to  be  the  only  view  accounting  satisfactorily 
for  the  phenomena  presented  by  the  Ion. 

Of  the  novel  and  startling  view  taken  of  the 
Alcestis  no  extract  or  summary  could  give  a  fair 
presentation ;  the  whole  essay,  which  extends  to 
128  pages,  must  be  read  (and  more  than  once) 
before  the  cumulative  force  of  the  argument  can 
be  appreciated.  The  many  who  agree  with  the 
conclusion     arrived     at,     regard     the     essay    as    a 


Ixiv  Memoir 

marvellous  example  of  inductive  reasoning.  On 
the  other  hand,  a  reader  who  for  any  reason 
hesitates  to  yield  assent,  finds  himself  again  con- 
fronted with  the  *  sorting  demon ' ;  for  the  play  is 
manifestly  open  to  Verrall's  interpretation,  while 
from  beginning  to  end  it  does  not  present  a  single 
refractory  feature.  Let  us  make  a  supposition. 
Let  the  story  of  Alcestis'  restoration  to  life  be 
familiar,  but  let  Euripides'  play  exist  only  in  one 
recently  discovered  copy,  still  kept  secret  in  the 
pocket  of  a  happy  digger  in  the  Fayum  who  is  a 
convert  to  the  rationalist  view  of  the  poet's  work. 
Let  him  be  challenged  to  sketch  the  plot  of  a 
covertly  rationalistic  play  on  the  Alcestis  story, 
after  the  manner  of  his  Euripides,  and  let  him  for 
answer  produce  the  Alcestis  that  we  have.  Can  it 
be  doubted  that  by  the  general  vote  he  would  be 
pronounced  to  have  scored  a  triumphant  suc- 
cess ? 

In  this  same  year  the  honorary  degree  of  Litt.D. 
11     was   conferred    upon    Verrall   by    Trinity    College, 
Dublin.     As  will  be  seen,  the   Public   Orator  did 
justice  both  to  his  theme  and  to  himself. 

Maximo  meo  gaudio  ad  vos  duco  Arturum  Woollgar 
Verrall,  virum  excellenti  ingenio,  doctrina,  industria  prae- 
ditum,  qui  nomen  meruit  nulli  secundum  eorum  quibus 
Cantabrigia  pristinam  famam  hodie  auget.  Postquam  spatia 
Academica  felici  eventu  percurrerat,  totum  se  dedit  Musis 
quarum  ingenti  percussus  amore  sacra  fert.  Studiis  Aeschyleis, 
Euripideis,  Horatianis  operam  praecipuam  adhibuit.  Fabulas 
Aeschyli  tres,  Euripidis  Medeam  edidit.  Non  huius  est 
tritam  criticorum  orbitam  sequi.     Pennis  non  aliis  datis 


Memoir  Ixv 

negata  temptat  iter  via 
coetusque  volgares  et  udam 
spernit  humum  fugiente  penna. 

Novas  verborum  gemmas  eruere  hunc  valde  iuvat,  novosque 
flores  decerpere  unde  prius  nuUi  velarunt  tempora.  Locis 
obscuris  lampada  ingenii  admovit,  sententiamque  latentem 
saepe  elicuit  quae  alios  omnes  fugerat.  Quid?  Nonne  ab 
inferis  Alcestin  revocavit,  Stesichori  exemplo  damans  ovk 
ea-T  €Tv/jto5  Ao'yos  outo?,  negavitque  in  fabula  earn  decessisse, 
ut  vulgo  perhibetur,  argumentisque  baud  spernendis  senten- 
tiam  suam  stabilivit  ?  Ut  ingenio  dives,  ita  animo  candido 
ingenuoque  est :  et  ipse  pro  me  testari  possum  quam  libenter 
auxilium  ferat  iis  quos  idem  pratum  metentes  viderit. 

Musarum  pio  sacerdoti  interpretique  sanctissimo  Arturo 
Woollgar  Verrall  plaudite. 

The  year  1897  marks  the  beginning-  of  the 
declension  in  bodily  health.  There  was  a  definite 
attack  of  arthritis,  from  which,  in  spite  of  a  visit 
to  Bath,  he  never  made  a  complete  recovery,  and 
the  smaller  disabilities  in  the  use  of  the  hands  and 
limbs  began.  In  1899  the  Tutorship  terminated, 
and  in  the  summer  he  went  for  a  *  cure '  to  Strath- 
peffer,  but  without  obtaining  any  appreciable  benefit. 
The  next  years  were  uneventful.  He  pursued 
further  the  study  of  Euripides,  and  in  1902  wrote, 
in  the  Alps,  the  essay  on  the  Heracles  which  was 
afterwards  published  in  Four  Plays.  In  the  October 
term  of  1903  he  delivered  a  lecture  on  the  Birds. 
This  was  the  first  of  those,  given  to  a  general 
audience,  which  came  to  be  looked  forward  to  as 
an  invaluable  prelude  whenever  afterwards  a  Greek 
play  was  to  be  produced  in  Cambridge.      I  regret 


Ixvi  Memoir 

that  I  can  give  no  account  of  it  beyond  saying 
that  it  was  astonishing  for  brilliance  and  originality, 
and  that  the  enthusiasm  of  the  audience  knew  no 
bounds.  It  was  found  necessary  to  repeat  the 
lecture  for  the  benefit  of  many  for  whom  there  was 
no  room  at  the  first  delivery.  The  later  lectures  on 
the  Eumenides  (1906)  and  the  Wasps  (1909)  live 
no  less,  I  believe,  in  the  memory  of  those  who  were 
fortunate  enough  to  hear  them.  The  following 
extract  from  a  report  of  this  last  in  the  Cambridge 
Review  will  give  an  idea  of  the  delightful  humour 
which  from  moment  to  moment  convulsed  with 
laughter  an  audience  of  nearly  a  thousand  people 
in  the  Examination  Schools, 

The  Old  Man  Philocleon  is  trying  to  adorn  his  con- 
versation with  the  hterary  anecdote  in  the  true  style  of  the 
day.  Unfortunately  his  fund  of  stories  all  date  from  the 
glorious  but  old-fashioned  times  of  Peisistratus,  and  they 
are  marred  by  the  fact  that  in  his  drunkenness  he  ends 
off  each  anecdote  or  allusion  with  a  piece  of  scurrility. 
Dr  Verrall  explained  how  much  of  the  humour  of  this 
scene  was  lost  to  a  modern  audience.  For  instance,  we 
can  hardly  raise  a  smile  at  the  lines 

Simonides  and  Lasus  once  were  rivals  : 

Then  Lasus  says,   '  Pish,  I  don't  care,'  says  he. 

Now,  the  point  lies  in  the  fact  that  Simonides  and  Lasus 
are  two  poets  of  the  Peisistratid  period,  and  reference  to 
them  sounded  grand  in  the  ears  of  Aristophanes'  contem- 
poraries. We  might  produce  something  of  the  same  effect 
if  we  imagined  a  dispute  about  the  fare  between  a  Festive 
Person  and  a  Cabman.  The  Festive  Person  or  F.  P. 
attempts  to  silence  the  Cabman  with  the  following  remark  : 
Great  Galileo  through  his  optic  glass 
Saw  once,  as  I  see  now,  a  silly  ass. 


Memoir  Ixvii 

A  Policeman  summoned  says  F.  P.  must  pay.  Says 
F.  P., 

Carlyle  thought  not.     He  closed  a  like  dispute 
With  Ruskin  by  the  observation  '  Scoot ! ' 

The  Policeman  says  there  must  be  an  end  to  this. 
'Ah,'  says  the  F.  P., 

Sir  Isaac  Newton  knew  that  Science  springs 
From  careful  notice  of  the  simplest  things, 
And  when  he  rode  a  coach  would  never  fail 
To  keep  an  eye  upon  the  horse's  tail. 
He  learn'd  a  lesson  which  I  recommend 
To  your  attention  :    *  All  things  have  an  end.^ 

In  other  matters  also  is  the  humour  of  Aristophanes  not 
obvious  to  a  modern  audience.  The  Introduction  of  the 
Chorus  is  really  a  piece  of  delicate  parody.  In  Tragedy 
it  had  frequently  been  the  custom  to  introduce  a  Chorus 
speculating  and  questioning  as  to  the  absence  of  the  hero.... 
In  the  Wasps  the  Old  Dicasts  come  searching  for  their 
absent  brother,  who  appears,  be  it  remembered,  out  of  the 
chimney-pot.  Throughout  there  is  sly  imitation  of  Tragic 
Drama.  We  may  partly  reproduce  the  effect  in  English, 
by  introducing  somewhere  a  parody  of  English  poetry — say 
of  Locksley  Hall: 

What  constrains  him, 

What  detains  him? 

May  the  cause  of  his  arrest 

Be  some  injury?     Or  how,  sirs. 

If  he  have  mislaid  a  vest. 

Shirt,  or  coat,  or  even  trousers? 

Or  perchance  the  mischief's  root 

Is  a  tightness  of  the  boot? 
Comrades,  let  us  wait  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn, 
Wait,  and  if  our  friend  should  want  us,  help  him  with  the 
shoeing-horn. 

v.  L.  E.  e 


Ixviii  Memoir 

Verrall  was  an  active  member  of  the  Greek  Play- 
Committee,  and  in  connexion  with  the  performance 
of  the  Eumenides  in  1885  and  the  Oedipus  Tyrannus 
in  1887  executed  the  tour  de  force  of  rendering  the 
lyrics  of  these  plays  into  rhymed  verse  which  could 
be  sung  to  Stanford's  music,  composed  for  the  Greek 
text. 

In  1905  the  work  of  the  poet  who  had  now 
perhaps  become  his  favourite — at  least  among  the 
ancients — was  examined  afresh  in  Fozir  Plays  of 
Euripides.  The  plays  discussed  were  Andromache, 
Helen,  Heracles,  Orestes.  With  characteristic  apt- 
ness in  the  selection  of  titles,  the  essays  are  headed 
respectively,  'A  Greek  Borgia,'  'Euripides' Apology,' 
'A  Soul's  Tragedy,'  'A  Fire  from  Hell.'  The  first 
essay  and  the  two  last — these  last  especially — were 
hailed  as  masterpieces  of  analysis  and  criticism  ;  and 
the  volume,  together  with  Euripides  the  Rationalist 
and  the  essay  on  the  Bacchants  afterwards  published, 
has  no  doubt  settled  the  main  questions  of  Euripidean 
interpretation  for  all  time.  The  view  propounded 
of  the  origin  of  the  Helen  is,  from  its  nature,  not 
such  as  could  be  more  than  suggested.  The  true 
answer  to  the  riddle  may  lie  elsewhere,  but  even 
if  we  remain  unconvinced,  and  regard  Verrall's 
solution  as  no  more  than  a  clever  guess  (which 
would  be  to  do  it  great  injustice),  we  are  far  from 
regretting  that  the  essay  was  written.  There  is  the 
expected  originality  in  the  way  in  which  the  whole 
problem  is  handled,  the  familiar  but  always  astonish- 
ing 'ingenuity,'  with  humour,  fancy,  playfulness,  wit. 


Memoir  Ixix 

tout  ce  qtcil  y  a  de  plus  Verrallesque, — in  a  word, 
Verrall  in  his  lighter  vein  at  his  very  best.  The 
following  passage  gives  one  of  the  many  reasons 
which  compel  him  to  regard  the  play  as  a  jest. 

Whether  the  cardinal  miracle  of  the  phantom  Helen  and 
its  astounding  disappearance  could  by  any  treatment  be  made 
credible  to  the  imagination,  we  need  not  speculatively  enquire. 
What  is  certain  is,  that  Euripides  does  not  so  treat  it.  Never 
for  an  instant  do  the  personages  of  the  drama  exhibit  the 
sort  of  emotion  which  such  an  event  must  be  expected  to 
excite.  They  neither  speak  nor  behave  as  if  it  were  real. 
A  single  quotation  will  settle  the  point.  Where  then  is  the 
evil  thing  which  was  sent  to  Troy  instead  of  you  ?  asks 
Theoclymenus  of  Helen  when  he  has  been  informed  that 
Menelaus  has  died  at  sea.  The  cloud-image,  you  7nean,  she 
answers  ;  //  vanished  into  air.  Ah  Priam  1  sighs  the  amiable 
prince,  and  ah  Troy  to7vn,  destroyed  for  nought/ — and  then 
without  another  word  on  the  subject  they  settle  the  details 
of  a  funeral  ceremony  for  Menelaus.  We  do  no  disrespect 
to  the  author  of  such  a  dialogue,  but  conceive  on  the 
contrary  that  we  are  following  his  clear  direction,  when  we 
say  that  it  recalls  not  even  the  midsummer  night's  dream, 
but  another  famous  dream,  which  I  need  not  specify,  in 
which  the  cat  asks  what  became  of  the  baby.  '  It  turned 
into  a  pig.'  '  I  thought  it  would,'  says  the  cat,  and  closes 
the  incident  by  vanishing,     (p.  46.) 

The  following,  from  'A  Soul's  Tragedy,'  is  a 
remarkable  piece  of  writing,  independently  of  its 
bearing  on  the  play. 

But  among  the  conceivable  factors  of  legend,  among  the 
many  ways  in  which  things  might  come  to  be  believed  though 
they  never  happened  at  all,  or  at  any  rate  not  as  they  were 
related,  there  was  one  upon  which  Euripides,  whether  guided 
or  not  by  any  predecessor,  had  meditated,  as  a  tragedian, 

€2 


Ixx  Memoir 

with  special  and  specially  justifiable  interest.  That  the  topic 
of  madness  and  mental  aberration  was  attractive  to  him,  is 
noted  by  ancient  critics,  and  is  indeed  obvious. ...[Illustrations 
are  here  given  from  various  plays.] 

These,  however,  were  but  steps  on  the  road.  It  is  in 
the  Heracles  that  this  conception  is  applied  on  the  largest 
scale,  with  most  skill,  with  most  insight,  and  most  profoundly 
tragic  effect.  For  power,  for  truth,  for  poignancy,  for  depth 
of  penetration  into  the  nature  and  history  of  man,  this  picture 
of  the  Hellenic  hero  may  be  matched  against  anything  in 
art. 

Although  both  in  fact  and  in  fiction  madness  is  most 
commonly  associated  with  crime,  this  conjunction  is  neither 
the  only  one  in  which  mental  extravagance  is  actually  found, 
nor  that  in  which  it  may  with  most  profit  be  studied  and 
depicted.  Great  hearts,  as  well  as  great  wits,  are  to  madness 
near  allied ;  and  among  the  consecrated  benefactors  of  man- 
kind there  are  perhaps  few  whose  intellectual  constitution 
appears  to  have  been  particularly  sane,  while  in  many  the 
vigour  of  delusion  has  been  proportional  to  the  general 
strength  of  the  faculties  and  character.  Euripides  needed 
not  to  look  beyond  the  market-place  of  Athens  for  a 
personality  scarcely  more  distinguished  from  the  mass  by 
acuteness  and  benevolence  than  by  eccentricity  of  spiritual 
imagination.  Nor  are  these  higher  types  of  aberration 
exempt,  any  more  than  the  vulgar  sort,  from  fluctuation 
and  intermittence.  The  madman  of  genius  or  virtue  may 
swing,  Uke  another,  between  sanity  and  insanity,  and  may 
be  great  in  both.  Now  let  us  suppose  (and  the  supposition 
is  surely  entertainable)  that  in  the  dark  ages  of  superstition 
in  the  very  dawn  of  civilized  life  and  intelligent  speculation, 
there  arose  a  hero  physically,  mentally,  and  morally  far 
superior  to  his  contemporaries,  but  curst  from  his  birth  with 
a  taint  in  his  blood,  a  recurrent  and  progressive  malady  of 
the  brain.  Let  such  an  one,  in  ardent  and  solitary  medita- 
tion, have  so  far  purged  his  notions  of  man  and  God  from 
the  grossness  and  barbarity  around  him,  as  to  grasp  at  least 


Memoir  Ixxi 

in  vision  the  hint  of  philosophies  still  unbuilt,  the  principles 
of  creeds  and  religions  long  after  to  be  preached  and  estab- 
lished. All  this  has  been  achieved  by  many  a  'madman,' 
whose  thoughts,  by  the  favour  of  circumstances,  have  passed 
into  circulation  and  are  famous  to  this  day;  and  doubtless 
(as  Euripides  justly  divined)  it  has  also  been  achieved  by 
many  and  many  another,  whose  voice  was  not  heard  nor 
even  raised,  and  whose  meditation  effected  nothing  but  the 
uplifting  of  his  own  heart  and  the  ennobling  of  his  own  life. 
Let  our  hero  have  done  his  duty  faithfully  up  to  and  beyond 
the  demand  and  standard  of  the  time,  loving  his  home 
and  family,  devoted  in  friendship,  fighting  gallantly  and 
victoriously  for  the  little  struggling  community  to  which  he 
belonged.  Let  him  have  lent  his  services  without  stint  to 
the  largest  and  most  beneficial  enterprises  which  the  state  of 
things  presented,  to  penetrate  as  pioneer  the  uncleared  and 
unknown  waste,  peopled  in  reality  by  savage  beasts  and  men, 
and  supposed  to  be  the  haunt  of  monsters  yet  more  terrible. 
By  the  vulgar  herd,  nay,  even  by  his  nearest  and  dearest, 
the  source  and  nature  of  his  greatness  will  be  ignorantly 
misconceived,  and  most  of  all  by  those  who  admire  most. 
On  all  sides  he  will  hear  his  praises  translated  into  language 
which  he  loathes  and  contemns.  His  superiority  to  others 
will  be  explained  by  the  fiction  of  a  divine  parentage,  which 
to  his  better  thoughts  will  seem  a  revolting  blasphemy.  His 
genuine  achievements  will  be  enlarged  and  travestied  by  a 
huge  appendix  of  incongruous  falsehood.  And  worst  of  all, 
because  of  that  taint  in  his  blood,  because  he  is  not  only 
inspired  but  also,  in  the  plain  and  gross  sense  of  the  word, 
mad,  because  he  has  his  hours  of  darkness  as  well  as  his 
hours  of  illumination,  he  himself  will  sometimes  lend  his 
authority  to  confirm  the  tales  which  he  abhors,  will  repeat 
the  abominable  nonsense  with  which  his  ears  are  fed,  pro- 
claiming himself  that  which  he  knows  he  is  not,  and  painting 
the  good  deeds  of  which  he  is  proud,  with  the  crude, 
disgusting  colours  of  folly  and  misbelief.  In  process  of 
time    he   will    become    aware   that   he   does   these   things. 


Ixxii  Memoir 

Long  before  anyone  else,  he  will  know  how  it  is  with  him. 
Self-hatred  and  self-suspicion  will  aggravate  the  inner  mischief 
from  which  they  spring.  And  at  last,  upon  the  occasion  of 
some  special  excitement,  in  a  few  moments  and  without  any 
effective  warning,  the  thin  partition  of  his  brain  will  break, 
and  a  burst  of  cruel  fury  will  exhibit  the  benefactor  of 
humanity,  for  some  horrible  hours,  in  the  secondary  but 
not  less  genuine  character  of  a  fiend.  Such  is  the  Heracles 
of  Euripides,     (p.  139.) 

As  a  constructive  study  in  the  psychology  of  madness, 
based  not  upon  observation  but  on  intuition,  and  for 
sheer  eloquence,  the  passage  stirs  in  me  a  greater 
admiration  than  I  dare  express. 

In  1 9 10  was  published  The  Bacchants  of  Euri- 
pides, a  volume  which  contains  seven  other  essays 
besides  that  which  gives  its  name  to  it.  The 
essay  on  the  Bacchae  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
those  on  Euripides  previously  published,  both  in 
power  of  analysis  and  in  literary  grace  and  vigour. 
But  it  was  much  more  than  a  mere  addition  to  its 
predecessors;  it  formed  the  indispensable  completion 
of  the  work  which  Verrall  purposed  to  do  in  connexion 
with  the  poet.  Other  remaining  plays  could  easily 
be  brought  into  line  by  application  of  the  principles 
of  interpretation  already  laid  down,  but  in  the  Bacchae 
the  miraculous,  or  seemingly  miraculous,  appears  not 
in  a  detachable  prologue  or  finale,  but  interwoven 
with  the  whole  action  of  the  play.  What  counten- 
ance, if  any,  Euripides  intended  to  give  to  the  cult 
of  Dionysus,  had  long  been  a  matter  of  debate  with 
scholars  ;  to  Verrall  the  question  naturally  presented 
itself  in  another  form.     What  puzzled  him  was  the 


Memoir  Ixxiii 

presence  of  the  miraculous  element  at  all,  and  its 
contradiction  of  the  poet's  practice  in  other  plays 
offered  a  problem  which  he  had  long  felt  demanded 
solution  before  he  could  himself  consider  his  views 
to  be  securely  established.  After  much  pondering 
this  last  riddle  was  guessed,  and  with  the  discovery 
that  in  the  Bacchae  the  miraculous  was  after  all 
intended  to  be  no  more  than  clever  wizardry  or 
the  familiar  exaggeration  of  hearsay,  his  last  difficulty 
was  removed,  and  the  rationalistic  interpretation  of 
the  Euripidean  drama  was  rounded  off  into  a  har- 
monious whole. 

As  a  critic  Verrall  possessed  certain  qualities  of 
mind  which  gave  his  work  a  peculiar  differentia. 
In  their  combination  and  in  the  degree  of  their 
development,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  he  stands  alone. 
Perhaps  the  most  distinguishing  mark  of  his  genius 
was  his  power  of  reconstructing  his  author.  I  do 
not  mean  his  author's  works,  nor  his  author  as  a 
writer,  but  as  a  man.  In  the  case  of  modern  or 
even  ancient  writers,  if  a  moderate  amount  of 
biographical  information  is  available,  such  recon- 
struction is  not  difficult,  and  the  thing  has  often 
been  admirably  done ;  but  when  this  information 
is  wanting  or  negligible  in  quantity,  as  in  the  case 
of  Aeschylus  and  Euripides,  the  task  is  of  an 
altogether  different  nature.  Verrall's  rare  insight 
and  inductive  powers,  brought  to  bear  on  little 
more  than  the  text  of  these  authors  (on  no  more 
in  the  case  of  Aeschylus),  enabled  him  to  trace  the 
workings  of  their  minds  as  it  were  from  within,  and 


Ixxiv  Memoir 

so  to  embody  with  some  measure  of  completeness 
the  living,  thinking  man  behind.  He  seemed  to 
know  them  as  one  knows  a  personal  friend,  the 
natural  current  of  whose  thoughts  one  can  in  given 
circumstances  divine,  and  of  whom  one  can  affirm 
with  some  certainty  (as  in  deciphering,  say  an 
illegible  passage  in  a  letter)  that  he  would,  or  would 
not,  have  written  this  or  that.  To  this  power  of 
psychological  reconstruction  we  are  indebted  for  a 
more  profound  and  comprehensive  conception  of 
the  genius  and  aims  of  Aeschylus,  and  for  a  pre- 
sentation of  Euripides  which  we  can  well  believe 
touches  close  upon  the  truth.  In  the  long  monologue 
put  into  the  poet's  mouth  in  Euripides  the  Rationalist 
(pp.  io6  ff.)  we  feel  that  we  are  listening  to  a  living 
man,  in  comparison  with  whom  the  personages  in 
Landor's  Imaginary  Conversations  are  hardly  more 
than  marionettes.  Clever,  again,  as  is  the  New 
Lucian  of  H.  D.  Traill,  the  author  has  all  the 
advantage  that  comes  from  the  selection  of  modern 
characters  and  well-known  public  men.  Verrall  did 
better  with  much  less  promising  material.  It  was 
because  Euripides  had  come  to  be  alive  to  him,  no 
less  than  by  critical  observation  directed  to  the  play, 
that  he  was  led  to  his  wonderful  interpretation  of 
the  Heracles :  if  this  man  handled  the  story  at  all, 
this  is  the  Heracles  he  would  have  pourtrayed,  and 
being  Euripides,  he  could  not  have  pourtrayed  any 
other.  Indeed,  it  was,  I  think,  because  Verrall  thus 
realised  Aeschylus  and  Euripides  as  living  men  that 
he  bestowed  so  much  loving  labour  on  their  works. 


Memoir  Ixxv 

Though  the  aims  of  the  two  poets  were  so  widely 
divergent,  he  felt  a  sympathy,  at  once  moral  and 
intellectual,  with  both  ;  he  came  to  know  each  as 
being,  according  to  his  lights,  a  man  of  noble 
purpose,  worthy.  In  the  art  of  Sophocles,  great 
as  was  of  course  his  admiration  of  it,  his  interest 
was  of  a  totally  different  kind,  and  comparatively 
weak.  Even  if  the  field  had  not  been  already 
occupied  by  the  great  scholar  whose  genius  was 
so  completely  in  sympathy  with  that  of  the  poet, 
he  would  never,  I  believe,  have  been  drawn  to 
producing  an  edition  of  Sophocles.  The  mere 
artist, 

evKoko<;  jxev  iv0dh\  evKoko<;  S'  e/cet, 

awakened  no  enthusiasm  ;  there  was  no  man  to  be 
discovered  behind  the  artist,  or  at  any  rate  no  man 
whom  Verrall  would  greatly  care  to  know. 

Another  predominant  trait,  in  respect  of  which 
I  find  it  difficult  to  imagine  that  any  man  could 
surpass  him,  was  his  extraordinary  intellectual  alert- 
ness. In  the  ordinary  relations  of  life  it  was  a 
characteristic  which  could  not  escape  notice,  so  that 
if  Athena  (not  she  of  the  /on)  had  chanced  to 
meet  him  on  one  of  the  many  likely  occasions  that 
Cambridge  society  affords,  she  could  hardly  have 
helped  quoting  herself  in  gracious  approbation, 

ovvcK    eTrrjTrj^;  icrat   kol   ayyivoo';  /cat  €)(€(f)po)v. 

The  company  would  have  agreed  that  each  epithet 
was  deserved,  but  they  would  have  had  little  doubt 
that  it  was  the  dy^iVota  which  brought  the  line  to 


Ixxvi  Memoir 

her  mind.  Of  his  published  work  it  is  one  of  the 
most  conspicuous  features.  He  seems,  as  he  read, 
to  have  missed  nothing.  No  point,  unnoticed  by 
others,  but  which  the  author  must  have  intended, 
would  pass  unobserved  (there  is  a  striking  instance 
in  the  note  on  vTrTiaa-jxa  at  Aesch.  Ag.  1263);  no 
text  which  obscured  such  a  point  would  remain 
unchallenged.  That  he  was  always  right,  his  most 
whole-hearted  admirers  would  be  the  last  to  contend; 
but  it  is  his  distinction,  that  in  the  whole  range  of 
classical  literature  and  elsewhere  he  saw  much,  very 
much,  that  predecessors  and  contemporaries  alike 
had  failed  to  see.  Few  men  can  have  raised  or 
discussed  more  problems  in  familiar  fields,  and  few 
can  have  contributed  more  to  their  solution  ;  and  if 
we  cannot  always  discern  what  he  discerned,  well — 
the  eye  can  only  see  what  it  has  the  power  of  seeing. 
Thus  a  reviewer  failed  to  see,  even  when  it  was 
pointed  out,  the  effect  produced  by  the  turn  which 
Agamemnon  gives  to  his  term  of  address  at  Ag.  905. 
The  following  note  left  him  unconvinced. 

A^Sas  Yt'vtOXov :  a  significant  opening.  Clytaemnestra  was 
the  daughter  of  one  false  wife  and  the  sister  of  another,  and 
her  husband,  who  calls  her  by  no  other  name  or  title  but 
this, — neither  '  wife,'  nor  '  queen,'  nor  even  '  Clytaemnestra,' 
— gives  her  to  know  that  he  has  not  forgotten  the  fact. 

This  would  make  our  Aeschylus  too  clever ! 

Problems  were  indeed  a  meat  that  Verrall's  soul 
loved  ;  and  if  it  were  the  modern  fashion  to  give 
additional  surnames  to  others  than  sailors  and 
soldiers,  in  commemoration  of  notable  achievement, 


Memoir  Ixxvii 

one  might  venture  to  affirm  that  he  would  be  known 
to  posterity  as  Problematicus.  Leaving  out  of  ac- 
count the  minor  questions  which  confront  the  editor 
of  an  ancient  author  at  every  turn,  more  than  half 
of  Verrall's  published  work,  which  runs  to  twelve 
volumes,  is  addressed  to  the  solution  of  problems 
properly  so  called.  No  less  than  five,  from  Greek, 
Roman,  and  Italian  literature,  are  discussed  in  the 
present  volume.  The  whole  of  his  work  on  Euri- 
pides, excepting  the  Medea,  centres  round  one  great 
problem,  and  we  must  include  under  this  head  the 
Studies  in  Horace,  and  the  Introductions  to  the 
Septem,  Agamemnon,  and  Eumenides.  In  The 
Bacchants  of  Euripides  we  have  essays  on  The 
First  Homer,  the  Mutiny  of  Idomeneus  (a  little 
discovery  of  his  own),  the  Death  of  Cyrsilus,  and 
Christ  before  Herod  ;  and  a  problem  is  the  starting 
point  of  half  the  papers  now  republished  in  Collected 
Classical  Studies.  The  variety  exhibited  by  the  list 
is  significant :  whenever  and  wherever  in  his  reading 
he  came  across  what  in  the  language  of  private  life 
he  called  a  '  boggle,'  he  could  not  rest  until  he  had 
made  an  effort  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  The 
origin  of  the  essay  on  Christ  before  Herod  is  typical. 
He  happened,  during  a  holiday  in  the  country,  to 
be  reading  Loisy's  ponderous  tomes  on  the  Synoptic 
Gospels,  and  discovered  that  a  difficulty  of  some 
importance  had  been  raised,  but  not  solved,  in 
connexion  with  the  two  Trials.  The  subject  was 
entirely  outside  his  usual  range,  but  as  he  said  to  me 
with  a  whimsical  air  of  apology  'there  was  the  boggle.' 


Ixxviii  Memoir 

Another  faculty  he  possessed,  which  must  have 
been  observed  by  all  who  knew  him  or  have  read 
his  books  :  he  had  the  genuine  dramatic  instinct. 
He  showed  it  in  the  way  in  which  he  narrated  a 
story  or  anecdote  in  conversation,  in  his  lectures 
(it  is  noted  in  Mr  Cornford's  account),  and  in  the 
form  in  which  he  cast  his  essays  and  many  an 
editorial  note.  He  does  not  jump  to  his  point, 
but  skilfully  prepares  the  ground  piece  by  piece, 
so  that  the  reader  shall  grasp  the  situation  as  it 
is  in  all  its  bearings ;  and  when  expectation  has 
been  sufficiently  aroused,  and  the  suspense  long 
enough  maintained,  then  and  not  till  then,  he 
launches  his  conclusion,  with  proportionately  telling 
effect.  In  his  editorial  work  the  faculty  proved  of 
special  service,  and  not  only  in  the  matter  of  verbal 
interpretation.  He  never  forgot — it  seems  odd  to 
have  to  note  this — that  a  Greek  play  is  a  thing  that 
was  once  actually  performed — a  Spa/ota,  and  the 
details  of  the  stage-management  were  always  present 
to  his  mind.  Yet,  as  he  found  it  necessary  to  ob- 
serve, the  ancient  dramas  have  been  read  and 
interpreted  as  though  a  dramatist  who  wished  to 
produce  a  play  on  the  stage,  had  nothing  more  to 
do  than  write  his  dialogue  and  place  the  ms.,  without 
explanation,  in  the  hands  of  the  actors.  Even  with 
our  own  dramatists  readers  would  fare  ill  if  the 
printed  book  contained  no  more  than  the  words 
to  be  spoken  ;  and  how  much  turns  on  effective 
stage-management,  and  sometimes  solely  on  that, 
needs    no   saying.      In   numerous   passages   of  the 


Memoir  Ixxix 

plays  with  which  he  has  deah,  Verrall  has  saved 
us  from  error,  or  enlarged  our  understanding  of 
the  scene,  simply  by  supplying  necessary  stage- 
directions.  He  has  pointed  out  how  much  could 
and  must  have  been  expressed  on  the  Attic  stage 
by  grouping,  by  gesture,  by  a  mere  change  of 
attitude  or  position,  by  intonation  and  emphasis. 

Evidence  of  yet  another  fruitful  gift  is  given 
by  five  essays  in  the  volume  of  Collected  Classical 
Studies,  and  by  many  an  occasional  observation  in 
other  parts  of  his  works.  He  had  a  peculiarly 
delicate  ear  for  rhythm.  The  essays  referred  to 
are  that  on  Eur.  Andr.  655  f.,  The  Latin  Sapphic, 
The  Metrical  Division  of  Compound  Words  in 
Virgil,  A  Metrical  Jest  of  Catullus,  and  On  a 
Metrical  Practice  in  Greek  Tragedy.  Each  was 
born  of  that  unerring  instinct  for  musical  balance 
in  language  which  is  illustrated  by  many  passages 
in  his  own  prose  and  verse,  and  each  is  a  master- 
piece of  constructive  criticism.  So  imperfectly 
were  the  rules  for  the  senarius  of  Greek  Tragedy 
understood,  that  though  the  two  lines  in  the 
Andromache  had  been  suspected,  no  one  had 
thought  of  rejecting  them  decisively,  as  Verrall 
does,  on  metrical  grounds  alone,  and  the  essay 
forms  a  valuable  guide  for  numerous  other  passages. 
The  conclusions  arrived  at  in  the  two  last  essays 
must  have  awakened  some  dismay  in  the  hearts  of 
not  a  few  who  had  found  delight  in  writing  Latin 
hendecasyllabics  or  Greek  iambics,  and  if  any  such 
composers  have  not  read  them,  they  would  do  well 


Ixxx  Memoir 

to  let  their  Muse  rest  until  they  have !  For  they 
will  find — what  they  will  find.  Besides  these  essays 
he  wrote  the  articles  on  metre  in  the  Companion  to 
Greek  Studies  and  the  Co^npanion  to  Latin  Studies. 
To  the  latter  he  also  contributed  the  article  on 
Latin  Literature  to  the  end  of  the  Augustan  period. 
Some  original  and  valuable  observations  on  rhythm 
were  also  made  in  the  Clark  lectures. 

Mr  Cornford,  who  gives  expression  to  the 
universal  verdict,  has  spoken  of  Verrall's  excep- 
tionally stimulating  power  as  a  lecturer.  The  same 
quality  is  found  in  his  books.  It  is  not  merely 
that  he  writes  with  conviction,  as  many  others  have 
written  :  he  does  this,  and  it  is  part  of  the  secret  of 
his  force,  but  he  does  more.  Some  authors  write 
as  though  chiefly  anxious  to  maintain  an  opinion, 
for  their  own  satisfaction,  as  it  were.  Most  write 
as  though  their  business  were  done,  as  perhaps  it 
is,  when  they  have  delivered  their  message, — with 
an  air  of  indifference  as  to  whether  the  message  be 
accepted  or  not.  Verrall  wrote  as  one  concerned 
to  convince,  to  convince  you,  the  individual  reader. 
There  is  a  personal  air  about  it  all.  It  is  as  though 
he  began  by  saying,  '  Here  is  something  that  interests 
me  immensely,  and  I  want  to  interest  you  too.'  He 
wishes  to  do  his  reader  a  friendly  service  :  '  Let  me 
introduce  you  to  Euripides  ;  you  will  find  him  worth 
knowing.'  It  is  an  effect  which  few  writers,  and 
very  few  editors  of  the  ancient  classics,  manage  to 
produce.  In  Verrall's  case,  while  even  those  who 
have  not  known  him  are  sensible  of  the  impression. 


Memoir  Ixxxi 

with  those  who  have,  it  is  reinforced  by  a  pecuUar 
experience.  He  wrote  easily  and  naturally,  and  so 
vividly  does  the  literary  style  represent  the  man, 
that  sentence  after  sentence  produces  the  illusion 
of  hearing  the  written  words  spoken  by  the  living 
voice,  with  all  the  familiar  intonations.  Vitality  of 
this  kind  stimulates,  and  not  merely  with  the  stimulus 
of  awakened  interest  and  the  sense  of  refreshment. 
It  encourages,  and  has  already  encouraged  not  a 
few,  to  fresh  study  on  the  same  lines.  For  Verrall 
never  left  the  impression  that  he  had  exhausted  his 
subject,  but  rather  that  there  was  more  left  to  be 
done,  that  the  familiar  ground  is  still  full  of  buried 
treasure. 

The  two  following  extracts  from  obituary  notices 
refer  to  his  work  on  Euripides. 

It  is  largely  due  to  Dr  Verrall  that  the  reputation  of 
Euripides  has  been  rehabiUtated ;  at  present  owing  to  his 
work  and  to  Professor  Murray's  translations,  the  last  of  the 
three  dramatists  occupies  in  the  esteem  both  of  the  critics 
and  the  public  a  position  which,  if  foreshadowed  by  Milton's 
view  of  him,  would  have  been  surprising  to  many  of  his 
readers  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  {The  Times, 
June  19,   1912.) 

The  scholars  had  long  considered  Euripides'  plays  un- 
satisfactory ;  but  by  riveting  their  attention  upon  details  they 
were  able  to  hush  the  fact  up,  and  continued  in  a  mechanical 
way  to  acclaim  him  the  equal  of  Aeschylus  and  Sophocles. 
Verrall's  first  business  was  to  tear  aside  the  veil,  and  to  show 
that,  if  the  scholars'  view  of  such  a  play  as  Ion  was  correct, 
honest  opinion  must  pronounce  its  author  hopelessly  stupid 
and  incompetent.  This,  however,  led  to  a  dilemma,  for  such 
excellent  judges  as  Aristotle  had  a  very  different  opinion  of 


Ixxxii  Memoir 

Euripides.  It  is  well  known  how. . .  Verrall  proposed  a  solution 
for  this  dilemma.  Whether  it  is  the  correct  one  is  a  highly 
controversial  question ;  but  it  may  be  asserted  with  some 
confidence  that  the  correct  solution  will  be  found  upon 
Verrall's  lines.  In  any  case  the  dilemma  itself  remains 
and  can  no  longer  be  shirked;  and  it  was  this  power  of 
forcing  a  clear-cut  intellectual  problem  upon  those  who 
would  always  prefer  not  to  face  one  that  was  the  great  merit 
of  his  mind.     {^Spectator,  June  22,  1912.) 

I  do  not  quite  understand  the  writer  in  the 
Spectator  when  he  says  that  the  correct  solution 
of  the  Euripidean  dilemma  will  at  any  rate  '  be 
found  upon  Verrall's  lines.'  Setting  aside  certain 
professedly  conjectural  suggestions  duly  marked  as 
such,  and  which  do  not  concern  the  main  question, 
Verrall's  *  lines '  are  not  speculative  but  logical,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  see  how  they  could  lead  to  any  but 
his  own  conclusions.  That  these  conclusions  should 
not  yet  be  generally  accepted,  need  cause  no  surprise, 
nor  should  the  fact  tempt  younger  students  to  mis- 
trust their  own  unbiassed  judgement  of  Verrall's 
arguments.  Busy  men  read  books  with  haste,  and 
so  may  fail  to  appreciate  their  force,  and  towards 
middle  age  most  men  notoriously  find  it  difficult 
to  change  their  views  on  any  subject.  No  doubt, 
also,  there  will  always  be  those  who  cannot  see  that 
a  door  must  be  either  open  or  shut.  Moreover,  we 
British  cherish  an  inborn  mistrust  of  all  subtlety 
of  mind  and  of  some  forms  of  originality,  and  a 
writer  who  combines  these  qualities  with  what  we 
call  'brilliance,'  is  likely  to  find  his  very  merits  a 
bar  to  the  ready  acceptance  of  his    message.     If 


Memoir  Ixxxiii 

Verrall  had  written  in  France  for  French  scholars, 
their  only  hesitation,  I  fancy,  would  have  been  as 
to  which  to  do  first — kiss  him  on  both  cheeks  or 
lay  wreaths  on  their  copies  of  Euripides.  There 
is  a  question  which  we  ought  to  ask  ourselves,  and 
which  some  of  us  have  not  asked,  and  it  is  this. 
If  the  ancient  and  (may  I  add  ?)  correct  estimate 
of  Euripides  as  a  consummate  artist  was  ever  to 
be  recovered,  was  this  recovery  likely  to  be  made, 
considering  the  conditions  of  the  problem,  except  in 
a  manner  at  once  daring,  original,  subtle,  brilliant, 
startling  or  even  shocking  ?  Was  the  riddle  for 
any  chance  guesser }  Was  less  than  a  Verrall 
needed,  and  were  we  not  to  expect  to  be  astonished 
by  the  answer  ?  Some  critics  would  seem  hardly  to 
have  realised  the  magnitude  of  the  issue,  and  the 
fundamental  change  of  view  which  any  solution  of 
the  question  must  involve.  The  very  strangeness 
of  the  solution  of  such  a  problem  is  in  its  favour,  so 
long  as  the  steps  by  which  it  is  reached  are  logically 
sound, — as  Verrall 's  are.  The  Spectator  also  speaks 
of  the  correctness  of  Verrall's  solution  as  '  a  highly 
controversial  question.'  This  may  be  so,  but  one 
looks  in  vain  for  the  controversy.  It  is  now  twenty- 
three  years  ago  that  Verrall  first  blew  his  trumpet 
and  entered  the  lists  on  Ion,  and  three  times  since 
he  has  sounded  his  challenge  and  thrown  down  his 
glove.  And  all  have  praised  his  high  port,  and  the 
beauty  of  his  armour,  and  the  skill  of  his  manege, 
and  some  have  muttered  that  bold  though  he  be 
and  ful  of  sotyl  devys,  yet  are   there   many  weak 

V.  L.  E.  / 


Ixxxiv  Memoir 

joints  in  the  rich  harness,  and  that  his  is  not  to 
be  the  victor's  garland,  but  no  man  has  taken  up 
Verrall's  gage.  Meanwhile  the  onlookers  are 
drawing  their  own  conclusions,  and  for  myself  I 
take  leave  to  express  without  reserve  the  conviction 
that  before  this  generation  has  passed  away,  Verrall's 
view  of  the  work  of  Euripides  will  be  the  accepted 
view,  and  that  mere  murmurs  of  disapproval  will 
cease  to  command  attention. 

From  1904  the  arthritis  remained  practically 
stationary  for  about  five  years.  He  could  walk 
with  assistance,  and  save  for  this  and  some  other 
slight  physical  disabilities,  lived  the  usual  life,  doing 
his  ordinary  work,  and  going  out  in  his  trailer  or 
for  drives  in  a  carriage.  Journeys  by  train  were 
accomplished  without  great  inconvenience,  and 
during  this  period  he  paid  many  visits  to  friends, 
and  travelled  to  various  places  to  lecture.  It  may 
be  interesting  to  note  that  Aristophanes  on  Tennyson 
in  the  present  volume  originally  formed  part  of  a 
lecture  delivered  at  Newcastle. 

In  the  October  term  of  1909,  besides  the  '  historic 
lecture '  on  the  Wasps  already  mentioned,  and  the 
Henry  Sidgwick  Memorial  Lecture,  the  substance 
of  which  appears  in  the  present  volume  in  the  essay 
entitled  The  Prose  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Verrall 
delivered  also  the  first  six  of  the  Clark  Lectures. 
Six  more  were  given  in  the  following  term.  To 
illustrate  his  main  theme,  the  Victorian  Poets,  the 
following  authors  were  selected  :  Tennyson,  Robert 


Memoir  Ixxxv 

Browning,  Matthew  Arnold,  D.  G.  Rossetti,  and 
Swinburne.  The  lectures  were  given  in  a  large 
double  lecture-room  at  Trinity,  accommodating 
about  200  people.  The  room  was  always  filled 
to  its  utmost  capacity,  and  the  men  among  the 
audience  greatly  outnumbered  the  women,  'a  fact 
most  rare  in  the  history  of  Cambridge  lectures  on 
English  Literature  or  on  Art.'  A  characteristic 
feature  of  the  lectures,  to  which  he  himself  attached 
great  importance,  was  the  reading  aloud  of  a  con- 
siderable number  of  selected  passages.  I  quote  the 
following  from  the  Cambridge  Review  : — 

Dr  Verrall's  method  of  reading  is  unique  and  over- 
whelming. His  voice  is  under  the  most  wonderful  control 
for  shades  of  pitch,  volume,  and  expression.  In  Greek  we 
have  long  known  it,  we  know  it  in  English  now.  Dr  Verrall's 
reading  gives  the  hearer  something,  many  things,  that  no 
criticism  in  the  world,  not  even  Dr  Verrall's  own,  could 
ever  give.  The  poems  are  suddenly  alive.  No  one  who 
heard  'Blush  it  thro'  the  East,'... will  ever  forget  the 
experience. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  these  lectures  are  preserved 
only  in  the  memories  of  those  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  hear  them,  but  from  their  very  nature 
they  were  incapable  of  being  committed  to  paper. 
Verrall  himself  would  make  no  attempt  to  give 
them  to  the  press,  for  he  held  that  in  such  lectures 
the  living  voice  must  always  play  an  indispensable 
part.  This  opinion  he  expressed  in  the  Inaugural 
Lecture  delivered  from  the  English  Chair  in  May, 
191 1.      In  a  report  of  that  lecture  the   Cambridge 

/2 


Ixxxvi  Memoir 

Review  writes  of  him  as  speaking  to  the  following 
effect : — 

All  languages,  and  English  more  than  most,  depend 
largely  upon  effects  of  stress  and  intonation,  which  are 
incapable  of  reproduction  in  writing,  but  in  conveying  which 
the  viva  vox  can  be  of  great  service :  an  instance  is  the 
much  quoted  and  much  misunderstood  line,  '  We  needs 
must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it.'  Especially  is  this 
the  case  with  poetry  written  in  an  elaborate  and  difficult 
metre — for  instance,  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  Skylark. 

The  appointment  to  the  King  Edward  VII 
Professorship  of  English  Literature,  which  is  made 
by  the  Crown,  came  in  February,  191 1.  The  chair 
was  founded  at  the  end  of  19 10  by  Sir  Harold 
Harmsworth,  who  expressed  a  desire  that  in  pro- 
moting the  study  of  '  English  Literature  from  the 
days  of  Chaucer  onwards,'  the  Professor  should 
follow  '  literary  and  critical  rather  than  philological 
and  linguistic  lines.'  Verrall  was  the  first  holder 
of  the  office.  Before  accepting  the  appointment 
he  consulted  his  medical  man  and  a  few  friends. 
There  had  been  some  increase  of  the  arthritis  in 
the  spring  of  19 10,  and  he  was  carried  upstairs  to 
the  two  last  Clark  lectures,  after  which  time  he 
never  again  walked.  In  the  summer,  however, 
there  had  been  a  satisfactory  recovery,  and  the 
medical  verdict  was  that  there  was  no  apparent 
reason  why  the  present  condition  might  not  be 
maintained  for  a  considerable  time.  His  friends 
were  unanimous  in  urging  acceptance  of  the  ap- 
pointment.      The    universal    opinion     was    indeed 


Memoir  Ixxxvii 

expressed  by  the  Master  of  Trinity  at  the  '  Annual 
Gathering '  soon  after  Verrall  had  passed  away ; 
he  said  that  no  one  who  had  heard  the  Clark 
Lectures  could  doubt  that  Verrall  was  the  proper 
person  to  be  the  first  King  Edward  VII  Professor. 
Twelve  lectures  on  Dryden,  the  only  course  de- 
livered, were  given  from  the  English  chair  in  the 
October  term  of  the  same  year.  They  were  marked 
by  the  expected  originality  and  freshness  of  treat- 
ment, and  though  the  difficulties  of  delivery  were 
considerable,  showed  no  least  falling  off  in  power. 
The  notes  for  the  lectures  have  fortunately  been  pre- 
served, and  these  are  so  full  and  in  such  form  as  to 
be  suitable  for  publication.  It  is  hoped  that  they 
may  soon  appear. 

All  who  have  known  both  Verrall  and  his  books, 
agree  upon  one  point,  that  the  fascination  of  his 
literary  work,  great  as  it  is,  was  surpassed  by  his 
personal  charm.  The  following  is  a  sample  of  many 
letters  received  by  Mrs  Verrall : 

Your  dear  husband  had  for  me  an  irresistible  attraction 
from  the  first  day  I  got  to  know  him  when  I  was  an  under- 
graduate, and  the  attraction  which  he  exercised  on  me  was 
only  that  which  he  had  for  everyone  who  knew  him. ...I  have 
never  forgotten,  nor  can  I  ever  forget,  his  kindness  to  me  in 
the  early  years  after  I  had  taken  my  degree. 

It  was  my  own  happiness  to  enjoy  the  closest 
intimacy  with  him  in  a  friendship  extending  over 
half  a  life-time,  and  perhaps  no  man  knew  him 
better.     What  such  a  friendship  was  to  me  would 


Ixxxviii  Memoir 

add  to  his  praise  if  it  could  be  told,  but  I  can  only 
record  here  that  during  all  the  time  that  I  knew 
him,  I  was  conscious  of  an  ever  increasing  admira- 
tion and  affection.  To  know  him  was  to  like  him, 
to  know  him  well  was  to  love  him, — and  for  all 
that  he  was.  One  did  not  have  to  make  allowances, 
for  there  were  no  contradictions  in  the  character,  it 
was  rounded,  harmonious,  beautiful.  The  extra- 
ordinary subtlety  of  the  mind  was  united  to  a  nature 
of  rare  simplicity,  utterly  devoid  of  ostentation  and 
pretence,  and  without  the  least  tinge  of  vanity.  He 
never  even  exhibited  such  a  modest  pride  in  his 
achievements  and  distinctions  as  would  have  needed 
no  excusing,  and  I  am  sure  he  did  not  feel  it. 
When  he  was  elected  to  the  English  Chair,  his 
crowning  University  distinction,  his  one  thought 
was  of  the  things  he  would  now  have  an  opportunity 
of  saying.  He  was  also  transparently  sincere,  and 
few  can  have  known  a  man  so  completely  unselfish. 
Easily  roused  though  he  was  even  to  excitement 
when  holding  forth  on  some  matter  which  greatly 
interested  him,  his  usual  manner  was  extremely 
gentle,  the  natural  outcome  of  a  kindly  and  affec- 
tionate disposition.  His  sympathy  was  instinctive 
and  peculiarly  real,  and  his  interest  in  the  fortunes 
of  his  friends  seemed  greater  than  in  his  own,  if 
indeed  they  had  not  become  his  own.  If  you 
went  to  his  house  on  a  visit,  he  would  inquire  par- 
ticularly about  each  member  of  the  family,  asking 
for  details,  and  this  not  out  of  mere  politeness,  but 
because  he  wanted  to  know.     Even  in  the  case  of 


Meinoir  Ixxxlx 

strangers  or  those  who  were  no  more  than  acquaint- 
ances, news  of  a  misfortune  touched  a  chord  of  real 
feeHng,  and  as  his  swift  imagination  vividly  pictured 
how  things  must  be  with  the  sufferers,  he  actually 
experienced,  I  believe,  something  like  what  he 
would  have  felt  had  the  trouble  fallen  upon  himself. 
It  was  a  literal  cru/x7ra^eta.  I  have  myself  observed 
this  many  times,  and  instances  will  occur  to  others 
who  knew  him.  Thus,  in  a  letter  written  home 
from  Chamonix,  there  is  a  quite  long  account  of  the 
sorrows  of  a  poor  man  who  had  lost  a  mule ;  and 
another  letter  written  from  Normandy  depicts  the 
desolation  of  a  '  personally  conducted '  party  of 
tourists  who  had  missed  connexion  with  their  con- 
ductor, with  almost  as  much  concern  as  if  he  had 
been  one  of  them.  A  letter  from  Strathpeffer  tells 
how  sorry  he  was  for  a  young  bride  who  was  being 
married,  'Scottish  fashion,'  in  a  sort  of  open  shelter 
in  the  hotel  garden,  in  full  view  of  the  residents, 
and  how  relieved  he  was  to  learn  afterwards  that 
she  '  didn't  mind  a  bit ! '  His  love  for  children  was 
uncommon  in  a  man.  He  understood  them  and 
their  ways,  and  found  great  delight  in  watching  and 
talking  to  them.  How  generous  he  was  of  his  time 
and  of  his  counsel,  many  an  old  pupil  has  testified, — 
how  he  would  'put  himself  out '  to  do  a  man  a  kind- 
ness. Thus  one  correspondent  recalls  an  occasion 
when  '  he  carried  me  off  to  Brighton  with  him  for  a 
change,  when  I  was  in  bad  health  before  my  Tripos'; 
and  few  of  his  friends  are  not  his  debtors  for  some 
service  out  of  the  common. 


xc  Memoir 

Not  the  least  of  his  charms  was  his  exquisite 
courtesy,  which  was  not,  as  it  is  so  often,  just  a 
veneer,  but  natural  and  spontaneous.  No  doubt  it 
was  the  mark  of  sincerity  which  made  the  following 
incident  live  in  the  mind  of  the  writer. 

...I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  the  first  time 
Dr  Verrall  spoke  to  me.  It  was  in  my  second  year,  and  we 
had  rooms  on  adjoining  staircases  and  shared  the  same  bed- 
maker.  One  day  he  was  wanting  to  call  Mrs  Chapman  and 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  first  storey.  I  was  just  behind,  on 
the  way  to  my  rooms,  and  as  his  illness  was  then  beginning 
to  take  a  firm  hold  upon  him,  I  was  kept  waiting  a  little  on 
the  staircase.  As  I  passed  him  at  the  first  storey  landing,  he 
turned  and  apologized  for  delaying  me,  and  such  courtesy  to 
an  insignificant  strange  youth  touched  me  deeply.... 

One  can  imagine  the  winning  smile  with  which 
the  apology  was  made.  It  was  by  these  and  a 
dozen  other  delightful  traits  that  Verrall  won  men's 
hearts ;  but  there  was  more  still  behind,  for  all  were 
combined  in  a  character  of  singular  rectitude  and 
rare  purity  of  mind  and  heart. 

As  Mr  Marsh  has  said,  he  was  a  good  judge  of 
character.  Yet  he  was  never  a  harsh  one ;  his 
broad  sympathies  were  always  ready  with  an  excuse 
for  human  weakness.  But  he  had  more  than  the 
insight  needed  to  make  a  judge  of  character ;  he 
had  the  quality  of  constructive  psychological  intui- 
tion which  goes  to  the  making  of  men  of  the  type 
of  Robert  Browning,  and  I  have  often  thought  that 
it  needed  but  a  touch  to  transform  him  into  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  as  a  dramatist  or  poet. 
How  near  he  came  to  this  may  be  seen  if,  for  a 


Memoir  xci 

moment,  we  combine  in  one  view  his  gift  of  musical 
verse  and  his  instinct  for  the  dramatic  with  the 
masterly  pourtrayal  of  the  Euripidean   Heracles. 

'His  presence,  his  voice'  (to  quote  Professor 
Gilbert  Murray)  'were  full  of  inspiration';  and  this 
was  true  even  of  the  latter  years,  when  the  body 
was  a  wreck  and  the  voice  had  lost  something  of  its 
timbre.  There  was  still  the  fine  head  and  face — the 
broad  full  brow,  the  harmonious  contour  of  the 
cheeks  and  well-proportioned  nose,  the  kindly  lines 
about  the  mouth,  and  the  large,  dark,  expressive 
eyes  that  spoke  with  no  less  eloquence  than  the 
compelling  voice.  During  the  later  lectures  he 
said,  '  I  could  lecture  as  well  as  ever,  if  they  would 
only  get  my  tiresome  voice  right.'  Nor  was  this 
far  from  the  truth.  So  long  as  the  voice,  with  its 
clear  articulation,  and  tones  according  instinctively 
with  his  theme,  responded  not  inadequately,  one 
could  not  fail  to  feel,  through  eye  and  ear,  that 
quickening  effect  which  is  justly  called  inspiration. 

Verrall  was  not  a  wide  reader,  as  reading  goes 
among  scholars  to  whom  we  apply  the  term  'learned'; 
but  he  was  something  better  than  'learned,'  and  he 
turned  his  reading,  which  was  really  wide,  to  better 
account  than  many  a  '  learned '  scholar  has  done. 
For  mere  information  he  did  not  care  overmuch,  he 
preferred  multum,  legere  potius  quam  multa.  What 
he  asked  for  from  serious  books  was  nutriment, 
and  this  he  got  better  (if  I  may  pursue  the  horrid 
metaphor)  by  repeated  mastication  than  by  the 
hasty  omnivorous  feeding  which  makes  assimilation 


xcii  Memoir 

impossible.  Certain  books  and  authors  he  read  over 
and  over  again  until  they  became  part  of  him,  bone 
of  his  bone.  Among  these,  besides  some  of  the 
English  poets,  were  Shakspeare,  Dante,  Dryden, 
Macaulay,  Thackeray,  Fielding,  Scott,  Louis  Steven- 
son, Jane  Austen,  The  Egoist^  Racine,  Bossuet  and 
other  famous  French  orators,  on  which  last  he  lec- 
tured in  early  days  at  Newnham.  Jane  Austen  was 
an  especial  favourite,  and  it  is  characteristic  that  in 
her  works  he  found  abundant  room  for  emendation 
in  the  countless  printers'  errors  perpetuated  from 
the  first  editions  to  the  latest.  He  published  an 
article  on  them  in  the  Cambridge  Observer  {iSg2), 
and  two  others  reprinted  in  The  Book  of  the  Cam- 
bridge Review.  While  some  of  the  corrections  are 
obvious  enough,  many  are  emphatically  not,  but 
needed — well,  a  Verrall.  I  regret  that  there  is  not 
room  to  quote  the  note  on  'his  direct  holidays  might 
with  justice  be  instantly  given  to '  [his  friends  at 
Mansfield  Park]  {M.  P.  vol.  i,  p.  240,  Brimley 
Johnson's  edition).  The  correction  derelict  is  typical 
of  his  skill  in  this  line,  and  the  arguments  by  which 
it  is  justified  are  another  illustration  of  his  remark- 
able power  of  reconstructing  for  himself  an  author's 
mind.  Shakspeare  and  Macaulay 's  History  were 
never  out  of  his  hands  for  long,  and  I  believe  he 
had  read  the  history  from  end  to  end  some  half-a- 
dozen  times,  and  many  parts  much  oftener.  He 
had  in  fact  prepared  for  delivery  from  the  profes- 
sorial chair  lectures  on  Macaulay 's  works  considered 
from  a  literary  point  of  view.    Shakspeare,  I  suppose, 


Memoir  xciii 

he  knew  as  some  of  us  know,  or  once  knew,  our 
Latin  Grammar  jingles.  His  memory,  and  espe- 
cially his  verbal  memory,  was  extraordinary.  Scores 
of  times  I  have  heard  him  quote  the  very  words  of 
long  sentences  from  prose  authors,  and  long  passages 
from  poets  ancient  and  modern.  Verse  in  particular 
he  seemed  simply  unable  to  forget,  and  he  would 
often  repeat  stanzas  which  he  had  read  only  once. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  which  he  could  not 
instantly  find  a  quotation  that  fitted,  and  only  a 
week  or  two  before  we  were  to  hear  the  loved  voice 
no  more,  something — a  mere  word — called  up  a 
stanza  of  Thackeray's  verse  which  he  had  not  seen 
for  years.  He  *  boggled '  over  the  ending  of  one 
line,  but  the  rest  he  declared  was  correct. 

For  dogmatism  in  every  form  Verrall  had  a 
strong  dislike,  and  in  the  matter  of  religious  faith 
the  dogmas  of  orthodoxy  and  heterodoxy  alike 
failed  to  appeal  to  him.  He  believed  that  the  truth 
lay  deeper.  At  the  same  time  his  reverence  for 
religion  was  deep,  and  the  life — for  '  all  that  is  true, 
all  that  is  noble,  all  that  is  right,  all  that  is  pure,  all 
that  is  loved,  all  that  is  fair-speaking,  be  there 
virtue,  be  there  praise ' — was  such  as  many  who 
hold  a  more  definite  faith  might  look  upon  with 
self-reproach.  His  was  the  anima  naturaliter  Chris- 
tiana. In  politics,  in  which  his  interest  was  keen, 
he  was  a  strong  Liberal,  stronger  than  many  friends 
whose  opinions  differed,  were  aware ;  for  he  hated 
controversy,  and  while  he  delighted  in  a  political 
talk  with  those  who  thought  with   him,   he   never 


xciv  Memoir 

himself  introduced  the  subject  with  those  who  did 
not,  though  he  would  listen  with  genuine  interest  to 
their  expositions  of  the  adverse  view.  His  liberalism 
was  of  the  true  sort.  G.  K.  Chesterton  writes,  in 
his  book  on  Browning, — 

A  Liberal  may  be  defined  approximately  as  a  man  who, 
if  he  could  by  waving  his  hand  in  a  dark  room  stop  the 
mouths  of  all  the  deceivers  of  mankind  for  ever,  would  not 
wave  his  hand.     Browning  was  a  Liberal  in  this  sense. 

And  such  a  Liberal  was  Verrall,  as  he  himself  used 
to  say.  Miss  Jane  Harrison  tells  a  confirmatory- 
story  :~ 

^  I  remember  saying  to  him  apropos  of  some  scholar  from 

whom  I  differed,  'It  is  intolerable  that  people  should  be 
allowed  to  go  on  talking  and  teaching  such  nonsense  ! '  He 
screwed  up  a  whimsical  eye  at  me  and  said,  'All  right,  let's 
have  back  the  Inquisition.' 

He  believed  in  thrashing  out  things,  everything, 
by  the  freest  and  fullest  discussion,  for  only  so,  he 
thought,  could  the  ultimate  truth,  for  which  he  cared 
supremely,  be  attained.  No  established  view  or 
theory,  on  any  subject,  had  for  him  any  claim  to 
acceptance  just  because  it  was  established  ;  all  must 
stand  the  test  of  examination,  and  every  side  must 
be  heard.  He  would  encourage  every  investigation 
which  gave  promise  of  tangible  fruit.  Thus  he 
took  the  liveliest  interest  in  Mrs  Verrall's  work  in 
psychical  research,  and  in  the  work  of  the  Society 
generally,  and  himself  originated  and  pursued  one 
most  valuable  and  interesting  telepathic  experiment, 
the  famous  one  on  ixqvottcAov  e?  'Aa).     And  he  was 


Memoir  xcv 

more  than  content  that  his  daughter  should  devote 
her  rare  intellectual  powers,  as  she  has  done,  to 
work  in  the  same  scientific  field. 

To  his  predominant  enthusiasm  for  literature  he 
added  a  love  of  art  in  any  shape,  for  he  had  the 
artist's  instinct,  and  the  artist's  eye  readily  respon- 
sive to  beauty  of  colour  or  of  form.  Architecture 
in  particular  appealed  to  him.  His  knowledge  of 
its  principles  and  developments  was  considerable, 
and  probably  few  men  were  better  acquaintanced 
with  the  great  European  churches,  either  through 
having  visited  them  or  through  books  and  photo- 
graphs. Music  gave  him  intense  delight.  He  felt 
it,  like  all  true  lovers,  in  his  very  marrow.  As 
he  listened,  he  lived  in  it,  totally  absorbed,  alert 
to  every  refinement  of  expression  and  responding 
to  every  mood.  He  was  a  regular  attendant  at 
concerts  in  Cambridge  until  the  physical  difficulties 
made  this  impossible,  and  in  the  last  months  the 
skilful  and  sympathetic  interpretations  of  a  friend 
who  used  to  come  and  play  the  pianoforte  to  him, 
were  among  the  welcome  solaces  of  that  sad  time. 
He  loved  nature  in  every  aspect.  A  cycling  or 
walking  tour,  in  England  or  abroad,  was  a  source 
of  perpetual  enjoyment,  for  he  missed  no  beauty  of 
the  scene,  however  simple,  no  transforming  effect 
of  light.  The  Alps,  Swiss  or  Italian,  he  of  course 
loved  best,  though  alas !  he  was  no  mountaineer  ; 
the  most  moderate  precipice  made  him  giddy.  The 
resolute  spirit  did  its  best  to  master  the  flesh,  but  it 
was  of  little  use,  and  the  passage  of  such  places,  if 


xcvi  Memoir 

accomplished,  was  always  attended  with  anguish. 
It  seems  to  have  been  the  only  thing  for  which  the 
dear  head  was  no  good  at  all. 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  he  was,  to  an  unusual 
degree,  a  man  of  many  friends, — real  friends,  who 
were  much  to  him,  as  he  to  them. 

Of  his  conversation  Professor  Murray  writes  in 

the  Oxford  Review  : — 

His  conversation,  even  at  a  time  when  he  had  been 
crippled  by  years  of  arthritis  and  must  have  suffered  great 
pain,  was  indescribably  brilliant,  ranging  over  politics,  lite- 
rature, classical  learning,  and  often  taking  refuge  in  pure 
nonsense.  Seldom  indeed  can  so  keen  a  wit  have  been  so 
utterly  devoid  of  malice.  In  a  friendship  of  about  twenty 
years  I  never  heard  him  tell  a  story  to  any  one's  discredit, 
nor  even  defend  iiimself  against  criticism  with  any  resent- 
ment or  bitterness.    I  remember  nothing  worse  than  a  genial 

'  W is  an  owl,'  and  then  attention  to  business.     His 

style  in  controversy  was  courtesy  itself.  He  could  make  an 
opponent  feel  ridiculous  and  even — experto  crede — laugh  at 
himself;  but  there  was  not  a  word  to  resent,  not  a  phrase 
that  left  a  feeling  of  unfair  treatment.  It  is  perhaps  owing  to 
these  qualities,  combined  with  his  unflagging  love  of  justice 
and  the  extraordinary  courage  with  which  he  rose  superior  to 
his  long  and  terrible  illness,  that  Verrall  has  left  upon  those 
who  knew  him  well  an  impression  of  greatness  and  of 
nobility,  far  outweighing  the  normal  admiration  due  to  a 
famous  scholar. 

It  remains  to  say  something  more  of  a  trait 
touched  upon  in  this  extract  and  also  in  the 
obituary  notice  in  the  Spectator,  from  which  the 
following  is  taken. 

Though  his  body  was  crippled  by  a  painful  illness,  his 
mind  never  seemed  subdued  by  it.    It  was  always  active  and 


Memoir  xcvii 

at  times  irrepressibly  gay,  as  willing  to  discuss  The  Mystery 
of  the  Yellow  Room  as  a  Pindaric  ode,  ready  to  break  out 
into  a  snatch  from  the  Mikado  or  a  tirade  from  Andro- 
maque. 

The  trait  I  mean  is  one  that  is  never  absent  from 
a  mental  picture  of  the  man  we  loved, — his  natural 
gaiety  of  heart  and  love  of  nonsense  for  its  own 
sake.  His  wit  was  always  ready,  as  for  instance 
when,  overhearing  on  a  hot  and  smelly  day  in 
Rome,  some  tourists  asking  for  the  Cloaca  Maxima, 
he  quietly  observed,  '  I  should  rather  have  expected 
them  to  ask  for  the  Cloaca  Minima  \ '  Another 
story,  which  I  tell  in  Mr  Marsh's  words,  shows  his 
power  of  extracting  amusement  from  unpromising 
materials.  At  a  meeting  of  *  revisers '  to  the 
O.  and  C.  Board  the  Latin  verse  papers  from  Eton 
were  produced.  '  Now  for  susurrusl'  said  Verrall. 
*  What  do  you  mean  ? '  asked  a  colleague.  '  Why, 
did  you  ever  see  a  copy  of  Eton  verses  without 
susurrusV  Then  he  looked  at  the  English,  and 
gave  up  hope ;  there  seemed  to  be  absolutely  no 
opening  for  susurrus.  He  went  on  sadly  to  read 
the  first  copy  till  he  came  to  a  line  in  which  'And 
universal  silence  reigned  alone'  was  rendered  by 
nullusque  susurrusl  'My  point  is  completely  estab- 
lished!'  he  screamed.  'If  there  was  any  sound,  it 
was  susurrus ;  if  there  was  no  sound,  there  was 
nullus  susurrus  \    U-u-ur  ! ' 

But  the  joy  of  joys  was  his  manner  of  reciting 
humorous  verse  or  pure  nonsense,  and  to  find  (if  it 
was  your  first  experience  of  him  in  this  vein)  that 


xcviii  Memoir 

he  took  as  intimate  a  delight  in  it  as  you  did  your- 
self. '  Tragedy ! '  he  once  said  to  me  suddenly  in 
the  early  days  ;  '  Did  you  ever  hear  this  ? '  And 
he  proceeded  to  chant  slowly,  in  rolling,  melancholy 
tones,  a  once  famous  song  of  Toole's  (metre  strictly 
dactylic) — 

A  norrible  tale  I  'ave  to  tell 

Of  the  sad  di-sasters  that  befell 
A  noble  family  as  once  re-sided 

In  the  very  same  thoroughfare  as  I  did.     (etc.) 

Or  it  might  be  Dan  Leno's  parody  of  '  The  Honey- 
suckle and  the  Bee,'  in  which  the  Wasp  vainly 
makes  love  to  a  hard-boiled  ^^^ : — 

And  what  a  silly  wasp  for  'just  a  word'  to  beg, 

For  you  cavHt  get  any  sense  out  of  a  hard-boiled  egg ! 

It  is  impossible  to  give  any  idea  of  what  Mr  Marsh 
well  calls  '  the  kind  of  augustness  which  remained 
with  him  in  all  his  wildest  nonsense.  He  seemed 
always  to  be  a  priest  of  fun,  pouring  it  out  with  the 
same  power  and  authority  with  which  he  recited 
the  most  magnificent  poetry.'  He  seemed  indeed 
at  such  moments  to  be  literally  possessed  by  the 
spirit  of  mirth,  and  it  was  enough  '  to  shake  the 
midriff  of  despair  with  laughter.'  Scraps  from  the 
Ingoldsby  Legends  would  bubble  up  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  and  it  does  me  good  to  recall  the  tones 
with  which  he  would  bring  out  such  things  as 

She  drank  prussic  acid  without  any  water, 

And  died  like  a  Duke  and  a  Duchess's  daughter ! 


Memoir  xcix 

Or 

But  is  it  O  Sandissima  she  sings  in  dulcet  tone, 

Or  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair  ? — Ah  no,  it's  Bobbi?tg  Joan  ! 

Sometimes  some  musical  rhythm  running  in  his 
head  would  seem  to  have  touched  the  spring,  as 
when  he  would  say  without  warning, — 

The  Callipyge  's  injured  behind. 

The  De'  Medici  's  injured  before  ; 
And  the  Anadyomene  's  injured  in  so  many 
Places,  I  think  there's  a  score. 

If  not  more. 
Of  her  fingers  and  toes  on  the  floor. 

He  was  also  a  prolific  inventor  of  extempore 
comicalities  in  verse,  and  this  not  only  in  waking 
moments.  He  said  one  morning,  only  four  days 
before  the  end,  that  between  sleeping  and  waking 
he  had  been  fancying  that  Charles  the  First's 
children  were  presenting  a  petition  to  Cromwell, 
when  he  found  what  he  used  to  call  his  '  head,'  as 
distinguished  from  himself  (for  such  experiences 
were  not  uncommon)  saying — 

And  then  this  strange  complaint   the   list   of  querimonies 

led  off: 
'We  can't  get  back  our  poor  papa,  they've  been  and  cut 

his  head  off.' 
I  wouldn't  listen  longer  to  these  slangy  little  princes, 
For  when  the  language  mocks  the  rank,  the  mental  palate 

winces. 

As  a  jest  of  the  Trapd  npoaBoKtav  type,  or  any 
type,    the    following   dream    is,    I    should    suppose, 

V.  I..  E.  g 


c  Memoir 

unequalled.  It  is  of  much  older  date  than  the 
preceding.  He  dreamed  he  was  in  a  train.  The 
train  stopped  at  a  station.  Someone  in  the  carriage 
asked  what  place  it  was,  and  someone  else  said 
Miletus.  Verrall  put  his  head  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  close  at  hand  a  factory,  on  the  blank  wall 
of  which  was  painted  in  large  letters 

EPIC    CYCLE    WORKS,    LIMITED. 


What  remains  to  tell  may  be  told  briefly,  and 
perhaps  best  so.  Although,  as  has  been  said,  there 
was  a  satisfactory  recovery  after  the  illness  in  April 
1 910,  it  would  seem  that  the  ground  lost  was  never 
completely  recovered.  In  the  late  autumn  he  felt 
the  strain  of  a  great  anxiety,  lasting  for  some  weeks, 
about  the  health  of  Henry  Butcher,  and  Butcher's 
death  in  December  was  a  crushing  blow.  Never- 
theless he  gradually  recovered  his  usual  spirits,  and 
during  the  early  summer  was  very  well,  all  things 
considered,  and  occupied  himself  in  preparing  the 
professorial  lectures.  In  August,  however,  there 
was  a  grave  illness,  and  though  he  was  able  to 
deliver  the  English  lectures  in  the  October  term, 
and  although,  as  those  lectures  show,  the  mental 
vigour  was  in  no  way  impaired,  it  was  only  too 
clear  that  the  bodily  strength  was  steadily  ebbing. 
The  next  course  of  lectures,  which  was  to  deal 
with  Macaulay,  was  indeed  prepared,  but  it  was 
found   necessary  to  postpone   their  delivery.     The 


Memoir  ci 

May  term  was  looked  forward  to,  and  there  was 
reasonable  hope  that  he  would  then  be  able  to 
lecture ;  but  the  following  months  brought  no  acces- 
sion of  strength,  and  the  proposed  May  term  lectures 
were  in  consequence  abandoned. 

When,  as  was  the  case  after  the  end  of  191 1,  he 
ceased  to  go  away  from  the  house  and  garden,  it 
was  a  delight  to  him  to  be  still  kept  in  touch  with 
the  outside  world  by  more  frequent  visits  from 
friends,  both  from  Cambridge  and  from  a  distance. 
The  visitors  from  the  neighbourhood  were  arranged 
for  by  a  sort  of  rota  for  each  week,  and  a  few  of  the 
most  intimate,  such  as  Mr  Duff  and  Dr  Parry,  came 
of  course  with  special  frequency.  During  these  visits 
he  would  talk  with  the  old  alertness  and  something 
like  the  old  vivacity ;  and  when  at  last  talking 
became  difficult  he  would  still  take  pleasure  in 
listening  to  the  conversation  of  others.  During  all 
this  period  his  days  were  filled  up  with  reading  or 
hearing  books  read  to  him.  Nor  were  the  books 
selected  light  ones  :  the  one  in  hand  at  the  last  was 
Clarendon's  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion. 

Through  all  the  fifteen  years  of  his  illness,  he 
never  lost  heart  or  interest.  From  the  time  when 
the  physical  disabilities  first  became  serious,  there 
was  no  repining,  no  complaint,  no  hint  of  rebellion. 
Some  momentary  uneasiness  might  call  forth  just  a 
fretful  word,  but  even  this  was  extremely  rare, — 
and  it  was  all.  Each  successive  infirmity  was  ac- 
cepted with  calmness  and  patience,  as  a  disagreeable 
factor  indeed,   to   be   reckoned   with   and   arranged 


cii  Memoir 

for,  but  then   as  far  as  possible  ignored.     With  a 

resolution   that   never  wavered,  the   unconquerable 

spirit,  unshaken  and  at  peace  within  itself,  insisted 

on  continuing  to  live  its  own  separate  life.     Some 

of  his  best  literary  work  was  done  at  times  when 

I     the  least  involuntary  movement  was  attended  with 

I     pain  and  the  general  discomfort  was  continual ;  and 

I     he  lectured  when  the  hands  could  no  longer  turn 

I     the  leaves  of  a  book  or  lift  a  glass  of  water.    Years 

I      of  suffering  failed   to   crush   him,   and  what  might 

I     remain    to  be    endured    he    faced    without   dismay. 

A  condition  which  would  have  dulled  the  intellect 

and  withered  the  heart  of  most  men,   would  have 

soured  them  and  made  them  peevish  or  morose,  left 

that  rare  nature  serene,  interested,  lovable,   to  the 

last.     It  was  wonderful  and  beautiful,  but  oh,   the 

pity  of  it! 

The  end  came  with  some  suddenness  on  June  i8, 
191 2.  In  the  morning,  after  being  carried  down 
into  the  study,  he  asked  the  day  of  the  week,  and 
when  told,  said,  'Ah,  Parry's  coming.'  He  then 
asked  the  day  of  the  month,  and  on  learning  that  it 
was  the  i8th,  said  'Wellington  College  Day.'  At 
half-past  two  the  pure,  noble,  steadfast  soul  passed 
peacefully  to  the  larger  life. 

M.  A.   B. 


Inscription  on  Memorial  Tablet  in  Anteckapel 
of  Trinity  College. 

ARTVRVS      WOOLLGAR 

V  E  R  R  A  L  L 

SOCIVS   TVTOR   PROFESSOR 

LITTERIS   ET   ANTIQVIS   ET    NOVIS 

TOTO   ANIMO   DEDITVS 

IN    COLLEGIO   PER   XXXV   ANNOS    LECTOR 

MIRO  ACVMINE   MIRA   ELOQVENTIA 

AVDITORES   TAMQVAM   SIREN 

DEVINXIT 

IDEM   SCRIPTIS   SVIS 

AESCHYLI   ARTEM    INLVSTRAVIT 

EURIPIDIS   FAMAM    VINDICAVIT 

DENIQVE   IN   ACADEMIA 

LITTERARVM    ANGLICARVM    PROFESSOR 

PRIMVS   INSTITVTVS 

MVNVS   FELICITER   VIX   INCEPTVM 

MORBI    MORTISQVE   NECESSITATE 

DEPOSVIT. 

IN    HOC   VIRO 

SINGVLARES   INGENII    DOTES 

COMMENDABAT   MORVM    SIMPLICITAS 

COMMENDABAT   EA   FORTITVDO 

QVA   LONGOS   CORPORIS  DOLORES 

SVI    SEMPER   IMMEMOR 

AMICORVM    MEMOR 

INVICTO   ANIMO   PERPESSVS   EST. 

NATVS    NON.   FEBR.    MDCCCLI 

OBIIT   A.D.   XIV   KAL.   IVL.    MCMXII. 


COMMEMORATIVE   ADDRESS 

delivered  before  the  Academic  Committee  of  the  Royal  Society 
of  Literature  by  fohri  William  Mackail,  M.A.,  LL.D. 

Arthur  Verrall  was  not,  technically  and  pro- 
fessionally, a  man  of  letters ;  he  was  a  classical 
scholar  and  student.  In  that  field,  he  was  an  able 
exponent  of  the  fine  and  contentious  art  of  textual 
criticism  ;  he  was  a  subtle  and  also  a  daring  inter- 
preter. On  the  one  hand  he  was  an  instance  of  the 
old-fashioned  scholarship  at  its  best,  equal,  perhaps, 
to  any  scholar  of  his  time  in  the  peculiarly  English 
art  of  Latin  and  Greek  composition  :  on  the  other, 
he  was  a  potent  force  in  the  movement  which  has 
transformed  scholarship  by  altering  the  whole  atti- 
tude of  our  minds  towards  the  ancient  classics.  But 
to  the  larger  circle  of  those  who  practise  the  art  of 
English  letters,  or  who  are  its  critics  and  historians, 
he  was  little  known.  In  his  own  University,  and 
among  scholars,  he  was  known  certainly  as  a  brilliant 
writer,  but  as  a  writer  of  works  of  scholarship.  The 
master  of  a  graceful,  flexible,  and  lucid  pen,  he,  in 
fact,  wrote  comparatively  little.  His  Clark  Lec- 
tures, and  those  few  which  he  was  able  to  give  from 


cvi  Commemorative  Address 

the  Chair  of  English  Literature,  were  not  committed 
to  paper.  He  was  not  the  author  of  any  single 
great  work.  The  collection  of  his  literary  essays, 
which  is  now  being  made,  will  not  place  him  among 
the  writers  who  have  in  this  age  made  English 
letters  illustrious.  Yet  he  was  a  strength  and  an 
ornament  to  the  Academic  Council  which  is  now 
recording  his  loss :  and  when  he  was  chosen  by  the 
Crown  to  be  the  first  Professor  of  English  Litera- 
ture at  Cambridge,  the  choice  was  recognised  by 
those  most  competent  to  judge  as  not  only  justifiable, 
but  singularly  happy. 

It  should  not  indeed  be  necessary,  if  the  relations 
between  scholarship  and  literature  were  such  as  they 
ought  to  be,  to  draw  a  line  between  men  of  letters 
and  classical  scholars.  For  the  classical  writers 
received  and  retain  that  name,  because  their  works 
represent  the  highest  and  best  of  what  has  been 
created  in  the  art  of  letters.  Just  as  our  whole 
civilisation  is  based  on,  grows  out  of,  that  created 
and  established  by  the  Greek  and  the  Latin  genius, 
so  the  whole  of  modern  letters  have  the  ancient 
masterpieces  before  them  as  patterns  of  excellence, 
beneath  them  as  a  soil  from  which  they  draw  nutri- 
ment. But  in  fact,  as  we  all  know — as  the  opponents 
of  classical  education  triumphantly  point  out,  and  as 
its  defenders  must  candidly,  if  not  ruefully,  acknow- 
ledge— it  is  not  the  case  that  all  scholars  have  a 
genius  for  letters,  any  more  than  that  all  writers  of 
genius  are  scholars.  Education  based  on  those 
ancient  masterpieces,   life  spent  in  their  study,  too 


Commemorative  Address  cvii 

often  are  an  illiberal  education,  and  a  wasted  life. 
The  creative  artist  has  often  never  possessed  scholar- 
ship, or  has  flung  away  what  he  possessed  of  it. 
What  has  been  his  loss,  what  may  have  been  his 
incidental  gain,  by  being  thus  cut  away  from  the 
traditions  of  the  past,  or  by  cutting  them  away 
through  his  own  act,  is  a  large  question.  But  this 
much  at  least  can  be  said  :  that  a  writer  to  whom 
scholarship  is  meaningless  can  have  no  trained  sense 
of  the  organic  continuity  of  the  art  of  letters  :  he 
has  forgone,  from  circumstances  which  may  or  may 
not  have  been  inevitable,  for  reasons  which  may  or 
may  not  be  judged  adequate,  the  power  of  placing 
himself  in  the  stream  of  history.  It  will  not,  to  be 
sure,  profit  him  to  have  gained  touch  with  the  past 
if  he  has  lost  touch  with  the  present,  and  sub- 
merged his  own  genius.  But  neither  is  it  to  be 
expected  that  his  own  genius  can  thrive  on  a 
sustenance  which  is  of  the  day  only.  All  live  art  is 
a  new  birth  ;  but  the  present  is  the  integration  of 
the  past,  and  the  art  of  the  present  is  but  one  mani- 
festation of  a  single  continuous  art.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  will  not  be  denied  that  the  scholar  has  often 
contracted  into  a  pedant,  for  whom  literature  is  not 
a  living  art,  out  of  touch  with  the  creative  and 
imaginative  movement  of  his  own  time.  For  scholars 
of  this  kind  the  noblest  of  all  arts  has  little  vital 
reality,  the  actual  movement  of  the  human  mind  has 
but  a  faint  interest.  They  are  linguists,  archae- 
ologists, critics  ;  but  they  move  like  laborious  ghosts, 
out  of  the  daylight,  immersed  in  a  dead  world. 


cviii  Coinmemo7'ative  Address 

This  Verrall  was  not :  we  are  not  following  a 
grammarian's  funeral.  For  him  letters,  both  ancient 
and  modern,  were  a  world  crowdedly  and  intensely- 
alive.  He  brought  to  the  study  of  the  classics — of 
those  masterpieces  which  have  been  so  thumbed 
and  worn  by  long  currency — the  fresh  mind  at  whose 
contact  they  sprang  into  fresh  vitality.  He  brought 
the  same  fresh  interest  and  enjoyment  to  English 
letters  and  the  literary  art  of  his  own  day.  To  hear 
him  discourse  on  modern  authors  was  to  realise  that 
they  were  not  separated  in  his  mind  from  the  ancient 
authors  among  whom  he  worked  professionally.  To 
both  alike  he  applied  the  same  rapid  intelligence,  in 
both  alike  he  felt  the  same  living  interest.  And 
that  was  the  interest  neither  of  classicism  nor  of 
modernism  ;  it  was  the  interest  of  literature  as  a 
fine  art. 

It  is  as  an  exponent  or  representative  of  English 
letters  that  we  have  to  regard  him  here.  But  Eng- 
lish letters  are  part  of  a  larger  community.  A  sane 
literary  nationalism  not  only  keeps  touch  with,  but 
reinforces,  the  solidarity  of  the  Republic  of  Letters : 
just  as  the  living  art  of  the  day  is  rooted  in  vital 
appreciation  of  the  no  less  living  art  of  the  past,  and 
in  conscious  kinship  with  it.  For  in  literature,  as 
in  all  the  arts  of  life,  art  is  one  thing,  and  artists,  of 
all  schools  and  periods,  are  one  household. 

In  that  art  he  concentrated  his  study,  not  on 
periods,  but  on  qualities  ;  not  on  particular  writers  or 
particular  works  for  the  sake  either  of  their  prestige 
or  of  their  novelty,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  artistic 


Commemorative  Address  cix 

quality  which  he  found  in  them  ;  not  on  a  single 
province  of  letters — poetry,  history,  oratory  and  the 
like — as  such,  but  on  all  these  as  literature.  That 
his  work,  so  far  as  it  is  recorded  and  accessible, 
does  deal  mainly  with  certain  periods  and  writers, 
only  means  that,  having  to  deal  with  these  in  the 
course  of  his  duties,  or  finding  in  them  the  literary 
quality,  as  he  conceived  it,  specially  prominent,  or 
requiring  special  prominence  to  be  given  to  it,  he 
took  them  as  instances,  and  turned  upon  them  the 
critical  spirit  in  which  he  read  not  only  them,  but  all 
that  he  read.  If  we  can  fancy  a  mind  so  rapid  and 
alert  as  his  pausing  to  describe  its  own  operation  as 
a  system,  we  may  think  of  him  as  saying,  whenever 
he  took  up  a  book  :  This  purports  to  be  a  work  of 
art ;  what  sort  of  art  is  it  .'*  what  is  the  effect  of  its 
art  upon  my  mind  ?  and  what  has  to  be  noted  in 
order  to  elucidate  its  art,  to  enable  me  or  others  to 
appreciate  the  quality  of  that  art,  the  process  by 
which  the  work  of  art  came  to  be  what  it  is,  the 
meaning  that  was  in  the  artist's  mind  ?  In  advice 
given  by  him  to  students  entering  on  a  course  of 
modern  English  literature,  this  note  is  struck  with 
emphatic  precision.  '  Do  you  honestly  enjoy  this 
book,  and  if  so,  what  in  it  pleases  you  ?  Does  your 
enjoyment  increase  as  you  study  it,  and  if  so,  through 
what  process  of  thought  .-*  Such  are  the  questions 
which  readers  should  ask  themselves.'  Such  were 
the  questions  which  he  asked  himself,  and  in  finding 
answers  to  which  his  study  of  literature  in  essence 
consisted.      The  word  'enjoyment'  should  be  noted. 


ex  Commemorative  Address 

For  art  is,  according  to  the  old  and  sound  definition, 
production  with  enjoyment  and  for  the  sake  of  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  the  appreciation  of  art  is  the  entering 
into  the  artist's  enjoyment  through  imaginative  sym- 
pathy, and  in  some  sense  thus  renewing  his  act  of 
creation  and  the  joy  of  that  act. 

Art  is  one  thing  ;  it  is  the  organic  synthesis  of 
all  the  arts.  And  the  art  of  letters  is  likewise  one 
thing ;  it  is  the  dlan  vital  incarnating  itself  in  verbal 
structure.  Where  one  artist  in  letters  will  differ 
from  another  is  in  his  special  pursuit  of  one  or 
another  element  in  his  art ;  and  where  one  man's 
appreciation  will  differ  from  another's  is  in  his  native 
or  trained  affinity  for  one  or  another  of  these 
elements  ;  in  the  measure  to  which  he  disengages 
this  from  other  qualities,  traces  its  workings,  and 
makes  it  in  some  sort  the  test  or  critical  moment  in 
all  his  appreciations. 

The  element  in  literature  to  which  Verrall's  mind 
had  perhaps  the  greatest  affinity  was  wit,  as  he 
himself  somewhere  defines  that  ambiguous  word. 
*  Wit,"  he  wrote,  'or  subtlety  on  the  part  of  the  artist 
in  the  manipulation  of  meanings ' ;  and  with  this  he 
went  on  to  connect,  on  the  part  of  the  recipient  or 
critic,  '  the  enjoyment  of  such  subtlety  for  its  own 
sake,  and  as  the  source  of  a  distinct  intellectual 
pleasure.' 

Subtlety  in  the  manipulation  of  meanings — this 
was  at  once  Verrall's  distinctive  strength  in  dealing 
with  literature,  and  in  some  measure  also  his  beset- 
ting temptation.      His  enjoyment  in  it  was  almost  a 


Commemorative  Address  cxi 

passion.  By  its  exercise  he  did  much  towards  the 
modern  revivification  of  scholarship.  His  effective 
work  lies  not  so  much  in  an}^  published  writings  as 
in  the  impulse  which  as  a  stimulating  teacher,  and 
even  more  perhaps  as  a  brilliant  talker,  he  commu- 
nicated to  pupils  and  friends.  He  never  brought  to 
any  book,  were  it  ancient  or  modern,  the  dulled 
mind.  He  took  no  orthodoxy  for  granted.  In  his 
reading  he  was  always  poised  ready  for  a  pounce  on 
some  shade  of  meaning,  some  implication  or  sugges- 
tion ;  and  he  followed  out  their  traces  acutely, 
adroitly,  alluringly.  Sagacity  in  its  literal  sense, 
the  keen  scent  after  things  hidden,  was  the  habit  of 
his  mind.  If,  as  was  once  said  by  a  remarkable 
thinker,  imagination  is  nothing  else  than  the  faculty 
of  tracing  out  consequences  fully,  Verrall  had  imagi- 
nation to  a  singular  degree. 

To  this  power  of  scenting  and  tracing,  of  quick 
and  continued  apprehensiveness,  must  be  added 
another  if  work  is  to  be  sound.  That  other  power 
is  comprehensiveness ;  the  power  of  seeing  things 
in  their  proportion  to  one  another,  and  not  exag- 
gerating what  is  secondary,  or  losing  grasp  of  the 
whole  plan  in  curious  consideration  of  some  detail 
or  byway.  It  is,  in  fact,  good  sense.  Without  it, 
the  sagacity  of  which  I  have  spoken  leads  straight 
to  paradox.  Self-hypnotised  by  absorption  in  a 
certain  train  of  reasoning,  the  mind  insensibly  sways 
aside,  and  the  judgment  loses  its  centre.  This  is  a 
danger  which  always  attaches  to  fresh  interpretations. 
The  essence  of  paradox  is  that,  however  startling,  it 


cxii  Commemorative  Address 

is  true  ;   its  vice  is  that,  however  true,    it  is  truth 
placed  in  disproportion,  and  thus  distorted. 

It  may  be  said  of  Verrall  that  he  did  not  wholly 
avoid  this  danger.  His  quick  insight  into  subtleties 
of  meaning,  and  his  delight  in  tracing  them  out,  led 
him,  more  than  once,  into  paradox  pursued  beyond 
measure,  novelty  of  view  passing  into  a  more  or  less 
conscious  whimsicality.  It  made  him  fond,  perhaps 
too  fond,  of  a  fascinating  but  dangerous  occupation, 
that  of  rehabilitating  names  in  the  commonwealth  of 
letters  which  had  either  found  or  sunk  below  their 
due  level,  and  reinterpreting  in  a  new  sense  works 
(like  the  Odes  of  Horace),  upon  which  the  world 
had  formed  a  settled,  and,  it  might  seem,  an  un- 
alterable judgment.  In  this  his  example  has  affected 
a  whole  school  of  his  pupils,  some  at  least  of  whom 
may  be  thought  to  have  given  way  to  the  temptation 
of  reinterpreting  everything,  to  the  pursuit  of  clues 
spun  by  themselves,  and  the  finding  of  hidden  mean- 
ings where  he  who  hides  finds.  A  sentence  from 
one  of  his  essays  is  very  characteristic  of  his  own 
attitude  towards  the  authors  on  whom  he  turned  his 
dancing  searchlight :  '  What  Dante  alleges  about 
Statius,  he  could  not  have  found  unless  he  had 
sought  it  with  singular  determination  ;  but  find  it 
he  did.'  But  any  reservation  to  be  made  here  as 
regards  Verrall's  own  work  would  only  be  just  if 
accompanied  by  generous  recognition  of  two  things  ; 
first,  of  his  delightful  love  of  nonsense,  what  I  may 
venture  to  call  his  attractive  and  humane  impishness  ; 
secondly,  of  the  great  service  he  did  to  literature  by 


Commemorative  Address  cxiii 

approaching  it  always  with  fresh  eyes,  by  realising, 
for  himself  and  for  others,  the  truth  that  all  works 
of  genius  are  alive  and  possess  the  mobility  of  life  ; 
that  they  lend  themselves  perpetually  to  fresh  inter- 
pretation, and  have  stored  in  them  an  unexhausted 
potential  energy. 

To  all  his  favourite  authors  Verrall  brought  this 
vitalising  force  of  a  subtle  and  dexterous  intellect. 
He  was  an  accomplished  sophist,  in  the  best  sense 
of  that  needlessly  discredited  word.  He  was  a 
master  in  the  art  of  exposition  and  the  art  of  per- 
suasion. The  power  of  the  live  voice,  a  thing 
nowadays  too  little  enforced  and  too  little  cultivated, 
was  an  element  in  his  genius.  It  made  him  a  fasci- 
nating lecturer,  but  this  kind  of  accomplishment 
leaves  no  written  record.  The  printed  page  only 
shows  imperfectly  with  what  adroit  and  ingratiating 
skill  he  handled  the  work  of  poets  and  historians,  of 
orators  or  dramatists  or  novelists,  and  showed  the 
live  intelligence  taking  shape  in  it.  His  own  range 
of  reading  was  wide,  over  the  whole  field  of  French 
as  well  as  English  letters.  His  affinity  was  for  the 
writers,  in  either  language,  in  whom  wit  and  subtlety 
are  predominant.  But  he  did  not  pursue  these 
qualities  simply  for  their  own  sake,  or  allow  them  a 
monopoly  in  his  interest.  His  two  favourite  French 
authors  were  Racine  in  poetry  and  Bossuet  in  prose, 
writers  of  the  classical  period  who  renewed,  and  not 
as  copyists,  the  authentic  classical  note.  So  in 
English  likewise,  he  found  his  choicest  and  closest 
friends  among  the  writers  of  the  central  movement — 


cxiv  Commemorative  Address 

Dryden,  Fielding,  Scott,  Macaulay — the  masters  of 
spacious  construction  and  large  sanity.  An  essay 
on  Dryden,  the  last  work  on  which  he  was  engaged, 
would  have  been  a  real  help  towards  the  appreciation 
of  that  fertile  and  perplexing  genius,  and  of  the 
whole  age  in  English  letters  to  which  he  has  given 
its  name. 

This  is  not  the  occasion  for  personal  record,  and 
my  task  is  not  that  of  the  biographer.  But  a  friend- 
ship of  more  than  five-and-twenty  years  may  be 
allowed  a  concluding  word  of  more  intimate  tribute. 
For  what  Verrall's  friends  remember  is  not  so  much 
his  fine  intellect  and  brilliant  accomplishments  as  his 
courtesy  and  geniality,  his  kindly  nature  and  winning 
manners,  a  natural  gaiety  and  clarity  never  clouded 
by  circumstance,  the  total  absence  in  him  of  jealousy 
and  self-assertion,  and,  above  all,  the  unconquerable 
spirit  which  bore  him  up  through  the  last  years  in 
which,  crippled  by  long  wasting  illness,  he  never 
allowed  himself  to  repine,  to  be  beaten  down,  or  to 
lose  heart.  Of  the  courage,  not  less  than  heroic, 
with  which  he  bore  that  load  of  bodily  weakness  and 
great  pain,  the  less  said  the  better  ;  it  is  a  thing  to 
admire,  not  to  praise.  If  I  venture  to  touch  upon  it 
now,  it  is  because  in  such  an  example  we  may  see 
how  the  art  of  letters  can  sustain  and  reinforce  the 
art  of  living ;  how  commerce  with  great  writers 
may  and  does  kindle  in  their  students  some  corre- 
sponding greatness  of  soul ;  and  how  literature  is 
not  a  region  abstract  and  apart,  but  a  real  thing,  the 
image  and  interpretation  of  human  life. 


Xw,    /^fywW^^fc^-^       ^^-^  '  '    '^      '^ 


A    ROMAN   OF   GREATER   ROME 

The  proverb  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  for 
a  bad  name  some  dogs  have  actually  been  hanged. 
It  is  certain  that  this  kind  of  justice  has  been  exer- 
cised not  seldom  by  "  the  judgment  of  posterity"  and 
at  the  "bar  of  history."  Such  compendious  con- 
demnation has  been  passed  not  only  on  individuals, 
but  on  whole  states,  whole  periods,  and  whole 
civilizations.  And  no  culprit  was  ever  more  unlucky 
than  the  Roman  Empire  in  that  period  which  pre- 
cedes the  definite  appearance  of  Christianity  in  the 
West.  The  first  century  (the  second  fares  rather 
better)  is  scarcely  known  but  in  denunciation.  It 
has  armed  with  instances  all  the  satirists  and  all  the 
preachers  who  have  come  since,  and  is  commonly 
described  as  one  vast  field  of  tyranny,  servility,  and 
corruption,  full  of  the  seeds  of  a  just  and  scarcely 
regrettable  decay.  The  mark  of  Tacitus  and  of 
Juvenal  is  upon  it  all.  It  would  be  useless  to  ask 
for  a  reversal  of  this  verdict,  partly  because  there 
is  truth  in  it.  But  we  ought  perhaps,  once  in  a  way, 
to  remind  ourselves  that  there  was  another  side,  and 
spare  a  word  of  thanks  to  benefactors  not  less  real 
because  for  the  most  part  anonymous. 

V.  L.  E.  I 


2  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

In  spite  of  many  warnings,  it  is  difficult  well  to 
remember  the  enormous  part  of  accident  in  giving 
the  colour  to  historical  evidence.  Nineteen-twentieths 
(or  some  other  imposing  fraction)  of  that  evidence 
is  literature,  so  much  of  literature  as  is  preserved. 
Speaking  generally,  it  is  preserved  according  to  its 
merit ;  and  its  merit — this  is  familiar  enough,  but  is 
often  ignored  all  the  same — has  scarcely  anything  to 
do  with  its  true  and  proportional  value  as  material 
for  history.  There  are  at  any  given  time  a  few  men, 
most  probably  a  very  few,  whose  words  will  stand 
for  the  chief  monument  of  the  age.  Each  of  these 
must  be  capable  of  giving  literary  permanence  only 
to  a  very  small  part  of  the  life  about  him.  All  of 
them  are  under  the  strongest  temptation — we  may 
almost  say  necessity — to  copy  each  other  and  fall 
into  each  other's  ways.  What  does  not  get  into 
their  pages  will,  not  indeed  in  effect  but  in  the 
memory  of  men,  soon  exist  no  more  than  if  it  had 
never  been  at  all.  We  need  not  go  far  back  or  far 
away  for  instances.  Are  not  they  now  complaining 
in  France  that  their  recent  literature  misrepresents 
them ;  that  their  writers  have  been  working  a  certain 
vein,  because  they  have  lighted  on  it  and  come  by 
suitable  tools,  not  because  it  is  really  wider  and 
deeper  than  others  that  lie  about  ?  It  is  certain 
that  these  complaints  have  truth ;  yet  it  is  odds  that, 
as  between  the  literature  and  the  protest,  \i  either 
has  any  long  life,  the  literature  will  have  the  best 
of  it.  We  need  not  even  go  to  France.  At  this 
very  moment  most  of  what  is  truly  important  in  the 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  3 

internal  history  of  eighteenth-century  England,  a 
history  made  up  of  obscure  multifarious  effort  in  the 
direction  of  social  improvement,  is  fast  slipping  into 
the  irrecoverable  gulf,  because  it  has  no  attraction 
for  art.  The  enterprise  of  treating  it  truly  and 
effectively  becomes  daily  more  difficult;  and  though 
it  is  not  for  those  who  have  done  nothing  to  speak 
ungratefully  of  what  has  been  done,  no  book  exists 
yet  which  is  likely  to  make  Walpole's  England 
(another  hanging  name)  appreciable  by  the  good  it 
had,  and  not  by  the  good  it  wanted.  And  if  we 
are  already  in  some  difficulty  with  the  eighteenth 
century,  how  is  it  likely  to  be  with  the  first  ? 

The  fact  is  that,  of  the  true  work,  the  greatest 
work,  of  that  time  we  know  scarcely  anything,  and 
never  shall  know  anything  adequate.  I  do  not  now 
speak  of  the  grave  personal  limitations  and  disabilities 
which  affect  our  chief  witnesses;  these  have  been 
often  pointed  out  and  as  often  practically  dismissed 
from  notice.  Most  of  them  are  professed  scandal- 
mongers, most  of  them  reactionaries,  out  of  temper 
with  themselves  and  their  times.  But  what  is  much 
more  damaging  is  this:  almost  all  their  interest  is 
fixed  in  Rome.  It  was  not  in  Rome  that  the  work 
was  being  done;  it  was  not  even  mainly  in  the  East, 
where  the  seedling  of  Christianity  was  preparing  for 
future  transplantation.  The  bed  meanwhile  was 
preparing  for  the  flower,  and  for  the  moment  this 
part  of  the  labour  had  the  lead.  If  we  could  have 
bargained  with  the  writers  of  the  age,  we  might  well 
have  foregone  a  great  part  of  their  laments  over  what 


4  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

was  dead  for  a  glimpse  of  what  was  growing,  for 
some  picture  of  Africa,  of  Gaul,  and  of  Spain.     The 
Romanising  of  the  Western  provinces  in  particular 
was  probably  the   most  brilliant  service,  as  it  was 
certainly  one  of  the  most  vital,  ever  rendered  to 
civilization.     Our  side  of  Europe  was  twice  saved 
from   moral  destruction,  and  very  narrowly  saved, 
by  the  vigorous  Romanism  of  Gaul.    There  is  some- 
;  thing  ludicrous,  pathetic,  and  yet  consoling  at  the 
\  same  time,  in  the  thought  that  Roman  Gaul  was 
:    being  made,  and  with   marvellous  rapidity,  all  the 
I    while   that   morbid   and   sensational    declaimers    in 
;    Rome  were  painting  the  world  as  a  crowd  of  pro- 
fligate slaves.     At  the  fall  of  the  Republic,  about 
50  years  before  Christ,  Toulouse  was  a  mere  military 
outpost  in  the  "backwoods."    A  century  later  it  was 
a  celebrated  seat  of  learning.     Cordova,  formerly  a 
not  remarkable  place  of  trade,  rose  in  even  less  time 
to  send  from  a  single  house  three  leaders  of  the  first 
rank  to  rule  the  literature  of  the  capital :   though 
Lucan  and  the  two  Senecas  unluckily  learnt  in  that 
intellectual  society  to  repeat  too  much  of  its  futile 
dreams  and  spurious  cant. 

Little  more  than  half  a  century  from  the  death  of 
Horace,  a  Spaniard  could  at  least  talk,  in  a  moment 
of  exuberance,  of  matching  him  with  a  Horace  from 
Spain  : 

The  Tagus  dares,  in  Lucius'  praise, 
Challenge  Venusia  for  the  bays. 
Be  Argos  praised  as  Argos  will 
By  Argos,  Thebes  by  Thebans  still; 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  5 

Be  Rhodes  renowned  by  other  tongue 
Than  ours,  be  Lacedaemon  sung ; 
We,  Celtic  or  Iberian  born. 
Of  Celtic  towns  will  take  no  scorn. 
If  Spanish  names  be  rude,  they  chime. 
Think  we,  not  ill  in  Spanish  rime. 

And  it  must  be  remembered,  as  this  boast  reminds 
us,  that  Corduba,  Tolosa,  and  a  hundred  creations 
lilce  them,  were  produced  in  great  part  not  by  the 
destruction,  but  by  the  instruction  and  self-instruc- 
tion, of  the  native  peoples.  All  this  work,  to  which 
we  are  all  deeply  indebted  this  day,  was  achieved 
by  the  early  emperors,  or  rather  by  the  men,  mostly 
unknown,  who  supported  and  carried  out  the  imperial 
policy.  It  was  begun  when  the  sword  of  Julius 
opened  the  senate-house  to  the  foreigner.  How  it 
was  done  so  fast  and  so  well  is  what  we  really  want 
to  know  about  the  first  ages  of  the  Empire.  It 
never  can  be  known  with  any  completeness.  Most 
of  our  informants,  belonging  to  a  select  circle  which 
greatly  mistook  its  own  importance,  are  occupied 
with  dramas  of  high  life  and  of  personal  politics, 
which  seldom  touch  the  vital  matter.  The  greater 
their  art,  the  more  they  take  our  attention  from  the 
right  place.  We  have  however  one  writer,  who  in- 
directly lets  us  see  something  of  the  spirit  which 
made  the  work  possible — a  Roman  Spaniard  who 
never  forgot  that  he  was  a  Spanish  Roman,  who 
never  learnt  the  false  "patriotism"  and  theatrical 
"indignation"  of  the  metropolitan  cliques,  who  was 
a  loyal  and  enthusiastic  citizen  of  the  Greater 
Rome. 


6  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

History  has  scarcely  used  enough  the  represen- 
tative evidence  of  Martial.  Tacitus  is  a  grave 
personage.  Juvenal  takes  himself  somewhat  more 
than  seriously.  Both  profess  to  instruct  us,  and 
both  for  reasons  good  and  bad  are  very  angry  with 
their  contemporaries.  It  is  not  surprising  that  his- 
torians, who  like  the  rest  of  us  take  men  at  their  own 
valuation  and,  for  accidental  reasons,  have  too  often 
read  their  "first  century"  to  get  up  an  indictment, 
let  Tacitus  and  Juvenal  give  the  tone.  All  the 
literary  men  of  the  same  age  must  be  in  many  ways 
much  alike.  They  learn  their  art  from  each  other. 
Martial  and  Juvenal  illustrate  each  other  at  every 
turn,  and  have  been  quoted  side  by  side  till  they 
are  half  confounded,  Juvenal  being  mostly  taken 
for  the  witness  of  real  importance.  But  between 
Martial  and  all  the  rest  there  is  a  spiritual  gulf. 
Taken  as  a  whole,  the  literature  of  the  first  century 
leaves  for  its  chief  impression — weariness.  The 
spectacle  of  life  seems  to  give  the  writers  no  direct 
pleasure.  They  take  a  sullen  satisfaction  in  endur- 
ing, and  a  fierce  satisfaction  in  denouncing.  These 
are  the  springs  of  feeling;  and  writers  who  cannot 
live  upon  these  (such  as  is  for  the  most  part  Statius) 
are  much  in  want  of  something  to  live  upon.  With 
Martial  it  is  utterly  different.  It  would  be  hard  to 
find  another  poet,  equal  in  bulk,  whose  tone  is  so 
uniformly  cheerful.  Never  was  so  bright  and  so 
interesting  a  world!  He  is  ready  to  touch  off  any 
subject,  and  every  subject  suggests  a  not  unagree- 
able contemplation.     Trifles  do  not  weary  him,  nor 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  7 

graver  thoughts  depress.  He  enjoys  beauty  without 
discontent  and  ugliness  without  maHce.  His  satire 
is  such  as  one  can  hardly  call  by  that  terrible  name. 
It  is  thoroughly  good-humoured,  and  carefully 
guarded  from  personal  application.  He  enjoys  the 
splendour  of  the  imperial  city;  he  enjoys,  but  with- 
out spite,  the  thousand  little  embarrassments  of  a 
city  population.  He  enjoys  the  country,  not  in  the 
philosophic  manner  of  Horace,  nor  in  the  artificial 
manner  of  Virgil,  but  rustically  and  simply,  in  the 
way  we  commonly  call  modern.  In  the  beneficent 
destiny  of  the  Roman  Empire — and  here  is  the 
grand  distinction,  the  key  to  all  the  rest — he  believes 
heartily  and  without  reserve.  He  is  the  only  writer 
of  this  time  who  uses  comfortably  and  unaffectedly 
the  language  of  the  genuine  imperial  religion,  the 
worship  of  the  monarch. 

King  of  heaven,  whose  power  is  proven 

While  it  guards  our  prince  below ! 
Though  mankind  besiege  thee,  seeking 

What,  O  gods,  ye  can  bestow ; 
If  for  me  I  ask  thee  nothing, 

'Tis  not,  Jove,  in  scorn  of  thee. 
I  should  pray  to  thee  for  Caesar 

And  to  Caesar  pray  for  me. 

Here  indeed  Martial,  whose  religion  has  naturally 
something  of  himself,  is  playing  with  the  subject,  as 
(to  say  nothing  of  the  rest)  he  sufficiently  shows  by 
the  humorous  little  reservation  "quae  dei  potestis." 
The  sermons  which  have  been  read  to  him  hereupon 
for  his  "disgusting  adulation"   are  a  sad  waste  of 


8  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

preaching.  But  he  is  sometimes  serious  enough. 
It  is  thus  that  he  praises  the  emperor  for  repeahng 
a  sentence  of  banishment : 

Kinder  than  bolts  from  heaven  thy  thunder's  course 
Turns  in  mid  air  and  stays  the  fatal  force. 
Were  Jove  thus  merciful !     Then  both  alike 
Should  often  stint  your  strength  and  seldom  strike. 

Strong  language,  but  not  to  be  judged  as  if  Martial 
did  or  could  regard  "Jove"  as  the  moral  ideal.  He 
only  expresses  in  his  way  what  Dryden,  applauded 
by  vast  numbers  of  Christian  Englishmen,  expressed 
in  his  way,  when  he  said  of  Charles  1 1 : 

If  mildness  ill  with  stubborn  Israel  suit, 
His  crime  is  God's  beloved  attribute. 

Such  language  belongs  to  epochs  (that  of  Louis  XIV 
in  France  is  another  case)  when  the  dearest  interests 
of  millions  have  depended,  or  seemed  to  depend,  on 
a  strong  government,  and  strong  government  has 
demanded,  or  seemed  to  demand,  the  reinforcement 
of  personal  power.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  repre- 
sent Martial  as  calling  a  man  "a  god,"  if  indeed  that 
could  give  the  man  much  pleasure,  in  order  to  be  paid 
for  it,  which  he  was  not,  and,  as  far  as  we  know,  had 
no  reason  to  think  that  he  would  be. 

This  "worship  of  the  emperor  "  is  a  matter  exceed- 
ingly hard  for  us  now  to  approach  with  sympathetic 
understanding.  We  are  apt  to  fancy  it  mere  slavish- 
ness  and  profanity.  It  was  most  assuredly  neither 
one  nor  the  other,  but  the  best  and  truest  form  which 
religion  took  in  that  "inter-religious"  period — if  we 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  9 

may  coin  a  term.    As  to  the  profanity,  that  is  answered 
by  observing  that  the  Roman,  had  he  used  capital 
letters,  would  still  have  written  "deus"  with  a  little 
"d."     It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  provincials  that 
Latin  was  beggarly  in  terms  of  spiritual  distinction. 
When  they  called  the  emperor  "deus,"  they  took  the 
simplest  way  of  saying  that  the  empire  deserved  from 
them,  as  human  beings,  gratitude  and  veneration. 
And  so  it  did.     The  disestablishment  of  the  Roman 
oligarchy  at  once  rescued  and  vastly  extended  the 
benefits  of  culture.    If  the  rapture  of  those  for  whom 
civil  peace  was  only  saved,  found  natural  vent,  as 
with  Virgil  and  Horace,  in  the  language  of  religious 
imagination,  what  was  the  strength  of  that  feeling 
among  men  highly  capable  of  civilization,  and  swept 
in  the  way  of  it  then  for  the  first  time  ?     The  altar 
of  Augustus  at  Lyons,  with  its  solemn  annual  cele- 
bration maintained  by  all  Roman  Gaul,  represented, 
if  ever  an  altar  did,  a  moral  and  reasonable  zeal.     In 
the  capital,  mainly  for  reasons   intelligible  but  not 
creditable,  the  enthusiasm  soon  died  away.     Juvenal 
bestows  on  the  altar  of  Lyons,  and  on  the  excitement 
of  those  who  served  it,  a  brutal  sneer.     We  cannot 
decently  applaud  him.     It  is  lucky  for  us  that  Lyons 
did  not  find  the  ceremony  ridiculous. 

Martial,  we  have  said,  is  first  and  last  a  provincial, 
a  Roman  of  the  Greater  Rome.  He  was  born  at 
Bilbilis  in  Northern  Spain,  a  place  celebrated  for  its 
ironworks,  and  one  of  the  thousand  places  which  took 
life  or  new  life  from  the  consolidation  of  the  provinces 
with  Rome.      His  silence  and  his  hints  alike  assure 


lo  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

us  that,  despite  his  Roman  name  (which  proves 
nothing),  he  was  a  Roman  only  by  name  and  poli- 
tical adoption,  a  genuine  Spaniard  by  blood.  Almost 
all  his  working  life  was  spent  in  Rome  and  Italy. 
He  came  to  the  capital  a  young  man,  in  the  last 
years  of  Nero  (about  65  a.d.),  to  make  his  living  by 
literature,  and  returned  at  the  close  of  the  century  to 
his  native  town,  being  then  near  sixty  years  old,  to 
spend  his  old  age  and  to  die.  He  must  have  taken 
with  him  to  Rome  an  admirable  literary  education, 
an  education  astonishing  when  we  reflect  that 
Northern  Spain  had  only  been  in  a  settled  condi- 
tion about  sixty  years  when  Martial  was  born.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  his  provincial  breeding  accounts 
partly  for  the  form  of  his  work.  He  composes  en- 
tirely in  short  highly  finished  pieces,  each  expressing 
a  single  thought,  a  complete  anecdote,  an  entire 
picture.  (The  name  of  "epigram,"  given  to  such 
compositions  in  ancient  literature,  has  so  changed 
its  sense  as  to  be  now  misleading.)  An  author 
writing  in  a  learnt  language  (and  we  know  from 
Martial  himself  that  the  exact  academic  idiom  of 
literary  Rome  was  not  often  heard  in  Bilbilis)  is 
safer  in  a  short  flight.  His  danger  is  much  greater 
if  he  lets  himself  go.  At  any  rate  Martial  never 
does  let  himself  go.  Sometimes  it  is  a  little  story 
of  the  bazaar — how  A.B.  went  from  stall  to  stall, 
now  asking  the  price  of  an  expensive  bronze,  now 
selecting  a  set  of  elaborate  crystals,  calling  for  this 
tapestry  to  be  taken  down  and  that  piece  of  furniture 
set  out,  and  finally  took  two  mugs  for  a  penny,  which 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  ii 

he  carried  away  himself.  Often  we  have  the  figure 
of  the  poor  man  who  strolls  the  colonnades,  the 
gardens,  and  the  baths  for  the  chance  of  an  invita- 
tion to  dinner.  He  looks,  we  are  told  in  one  place, 
so  depressed  and  so  seedy,  that  when  he  returns  as 
a  last  chance  to  the  colonnade  of  Europa,  where  the 
heroine  was  represented  upon  her  bull,  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas  inevitably  recalls  the  scarecrows  which 
were  tossed  about  by  the  bulls  of  the  amphitheatre, 
and  the  looker-on  breathes  a  charitable  prayer  that, 
failing  all  other  resources,  the  wanderer  may  per- 
chance be  "entertained  by  the  bull."  In  one  piece 
the  poet  laments  gracefully  over  the  lovely  landscape 
covered  by  the  lava  of  Vesuvius : 

Is  this  Vesuvius,  late  so  freshly  trimmed 
With  vines,  and  rich  with  vats  at  vintage  overbrimmed? 

Are  these  the  hills  that  Bacchus  chose  to  grace 
More  than  his  Nysa?     This  the  Satyrs'  revelling  place? 

Is  this  the  land  renowned  of  Hercules? 
The  haunts  to  Venus  dear  more  than  Cythera  these? 

Burned,  blasted,  overwhelmed !     It  is  a  sight 
To  make  the  almighty  rue  the  license  of  their  might. 

At  another  time  he  laments  with  deeper  feeling 
over  the  tomb  of  a  little  slave.  This  child,  Erotion, 
seems  to  have  been  born  in  the  poet's  household,  and 
was  brought  up  by  him  as  an  orphan.  He  loved  her 
dearly,  and  was  deeply  affected  by  her  early  death. 
It  would  be  rash  to  attempt  here  either  the  beautiful 
verses  (v  34)  in  which  he  commends  the  poor  little 
ghost  to  the  protection  of  her  dead  parents  among 
the  terrors  of  the  unseen  world,  or  those,  still  more 
tender  (x  61),  written  years  afterwards  and  in  the 


12  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

prospect  of  his  return  to  Spain,  in  which  he  begs 
whosoever  might  succeed  him  as  the  proprietor  of 
his  ItaHan  plot,  not  to  neglect  the  little  grave.  But 
there  is  another  tribute  to  her  memory  (v  37),  of 
which  some  general  idea  may  be  given.  It  is  a 
curious  piece.  The  poet's  habitual  mood  asserts 
itself  oddly  in  the  hour  of  grief.  He  plays  with 
his  sorrow  fancifully,  and  ends  with  a  grimace,  as 
pathetic  perhaps  in  its  fashion  as  tears. 

I  had  a  maid,  a  little  maid, 

More  soft  than  swans  or  lambkins  be. 

More  fine,  more  delicately  made 
Than  finest  cates,  than  jewelry. 

Snow,  lilies,  ivory  new,  would  seem 

Beside  her  fairness  scarcely  fair : 
No  fleece  or  fur  of  golden  gleam 

Could  match  the  golden  of  her  hair. 

Her  breath  was  as  the  air  that  smells 

Of  roses  in  the  Paestan  land, 
Or  honey  fresh  from  Attic  cells. 

Or  amber  from  a  lady's  hand. 

Matched  with  her  poses  and  her  play 
The  graceful  peacock  wanted  grace ; 

The  squirrel  seemed  but  clumsy ;  nay, 
The  phoenix  had  been  commonplace. 

Erotion !     Six — not  six  years  old. 

And  dead,  my  plaything  and  my  pet ! 

This  hour  they  burned  her,  and  the  mould. 
She  mixed  with,  feels  some  warmness  yet. 

And  Paetus  chides :    "  Be  brave,"  says  he, 

"  /  have  just  carried  to  the  grave 
A  noble  dame  of  high  degree — 

And  wealth  (he  sighs),  no  little  slave ! 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  13 

"It  does  not  break  my  heart,  although 
She  was  my  wife.     I  see  you  start." 

What  courage  !     What  an  awful  blow  ! 
A  fortune  does  not  break  his  heart ! 

The  way  in  which  the  illustrations  are  here  piled 
up  is  characteristic.  But  it  is  more  commonly  used 
merely  to  make  entertainment  out  of  some  simple 
idea.  A  good  specimen  is  the  poem  in  which  a 
person  presented  with  a  garden-farm '  expresses  his 
disappointment  that  it  is  not  bigger.  "It  is  a  mere 
window-box.  A  grasshopper's  wing  would  cover  it. 
A  cucumber  could  not  lie  straight  in  it.  There  is 
not  room  for  the  whole  of  a  snake.  The  one  gnat 
is  dead  of  starvation.  A  mushroom  in  spreading, 
a  fig  in  swelling,  a  pansy  in  opening,  would  go  over 
the  edge.  A  building  swallow  takes  the  whole  hay- 
crop.  The  corn  could  be  carried  in  a  spoon,  and  the 
wine  made  in  a  nutshell."  This  sort  of  miscellany, 
set  off  by  phrasing  and  versification  generally  fault- 
less, and  everywhere  sustained  by  a  frank,  unaffected, 
and  impartial  human  interest,  will  at  any  rate  just 
tempt  an  indolent  reader  from  page  to  page :  and 
this  is  Martial's  proclaimed  ambition. 

The  mere  delight  in  a  complex  and  yet  orderly 
existence,  in  material  civilization,  has  perhaps  never 
been  expressed  with  such  force  as  by  Martial.  It 
seldom  was  achieved  so  suddenly  and  so  happily  as 
by  the  men  of  his  country  and  time.      I  propose  to 

^  It  has  been  supposed  that  Martial  is  the  donee,  and  that  the 
circumstances  are  real.  This  certainly  cannot  be  proved,  and 
I  take  them  to  be  fictitious. 


14  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

present  here,  as  best  I  can,  a  few  of  those  poems 
which  seem  to  me  representative  of  this  feeling. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  give  a 
full  equivalent  or  an  exact  rendering.  This  paper 
is  not  for  those  who  can  read  their  Martial,  and  do 
it.  Others  will  perhaps  be  indulgent,  and  then,  as 
Martial  himself  might  say,  they  may  get  to  the  end 
if  they  do  not  stop  sooner. 

We  will  take  first  a  piece  (ix  6i)  expressing 
perhaps  in  the  form  least  liable  to  modern  objection 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  new  Romans  for  the  work  of 
the  Caesars.  All  suspicion  of  flattery  is  here  at  least 
impossible.  The  Caesar  celebrated,  the  "  deified  " 
Julius,  was  dead  more  than  loo  years  ago  when  it 
was  written.  The  rivalry  of  Caesarian  and  Pompeian 
was  as  much  a  matter  of  history  as  it  is  now.  It  is 
impossible  to  attribute  the  zeal  of  the  poet  to  any 
motive  but  honest  reverence  for  the  creator  of  im- 
perial Spain.  That  his  memory  should  have  been 
worshipped  at  Cordova  is  the  more  noticeable  be- 
cause, when  every  allowance  is  made  for  exaggeration, 
Cordova  must  have  paid  dearly  at  the  moment  for 
the  bloody  inauguration  of  the  new  world.  The 
subject  here  is  a  house,  which  had  lodged  the  divine 
hero  and  still  showed  "Caesar's  tree." 

Where  golden  soil  with  native  richness  dyes 

On  living  flocks  the  fleece  of  Western  lands; 
Where  Cordova  by  generous  Baetis  lies 

Well-pleased,  a  mansion  monumental  stands  : 

There  Caesar  stayed.     A  plane-tree  spreading  wide 
Enfolds  the  court  in  shade  from  side  to  side : 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  15 

This  Caesar  planted.     From  his  conquering  hands 
The  wand  auspiciously  commenced  to  rise ; 

And  still,  as  conscious  of  his  high  commands, 
Aspires  with  lusty  boughs  to  climb  the  skies. 

There  oft  the  reeling  Fauns  at  hour  unmeet 

With  merry  pipe  scare  Silence  from  her  bed ; 
There  oft  to  baffle  Pan's  pursuing  feet 

Through  lone  dark  fields  the  woodland  fay  hath  fled. 
With  perfume  Bacchus'  rout  the  rooms  hath  filled; 
Lush  grew  the  leafage  from  the  wine  they  spilled ; 
At  morn  the  grass  with  pile  of  roses  shed, 

Which  no  man  knew  for  his,  was  flushed  and  sweet. 
Then,  tree  of  gods,  hold  high  thy  deathless  head, 
Fear  no  profaning  steel,  no  furnace  heat. 

Pompeian  slips  may  perish  with  the  name. 
Thy  planter  planted  for  eternal  fame. 

We  are  not  going  now  to  pursue  this  Caesarian 
topic  any  further,  though  Martial  offers  plenty  of 
illustrations.  We  have  looked  at  it  only  to  see  what 
faith  the  writer  had  in  him.  Long  imaginative 
labours  (and  Martial  must  have  worked  exceedingly 
hard)  can  scarcely  be  sustained  without  a  belief  in 
something.  Martial  believed  cordially  in  the  empire 
and  its  business  of  civilization.  "If  you  would  move 
my  tears,  yourself  must  feel  the  grief."  If  you  would 
be  interesting,  you  must  be  interested.  The  mark 
of  Martial,  as  already  said,  is  just  this :  that  the 
machinery  and  goings-on  of  civilized  life  are  so 
universally  interesting  to  him,  and  in  him  become 
so  interesting.  Nothing  excites  him  more,  nothing 
lifts  him  to  so  high  a  level,  as  that  special  product 
of  material  civilization,  household  comfort.  He  is 
perhaps  the  only  writer  in  whom  plate  and  tapestry, 


1 6  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

earthenware  and  hardware,  beds  and  sofas,  become 
truly  poetic,  as  all  deserving  readers  would  allow 
that  they  do.  This  is  not  to  be  attributed  merely 
to  the  man's  individual  character.  It  is  the  result 
of  his  time  and  situation.  Convenience  of  life  has 
a  nobler  aspect  in  him  than  elsewhere,  because  it 
was  for  his  time,  and  relatively  to  those  whom  he 
represented,  a  nobler  and  more  elevating  thing  than 
it  commonly  is.  He  delights  in  pleasant  houses. 
He  loves  the  urban  palace;  he  is  not  insensible  to 
suburban  snugness;  but,  above  all,  he  loves  that 
highest  achievement  of  comfort,  the  rich  man's 
fancy-farm.  To  the  honour  of  this  he  sacrifices  the 
palace,  with  its  weary  ceremony,  and  the  suburban 
garden,  which  leaves  you  after  all  dependent  on  the 
market.  Bassus  has  such  a  garden.  He  has  been 
seen  on  the  road  near  Rome  with  a  whole  carriage- 
full  of  pleasant  things — vegetables,  game,  and  poul- 
try ;  even  the  running  footmen  had  eggs  to  carry : 

So  plenteous  was  the  freight  in  every  sort 
Of  rural  breed  and  boon.     Our  friend,  in  short, 
Was  on  his  way  between  his  "  farm "  and  town. 
"Yes,  coming  up."     Oh  no,  sir; — goifig  down! 

Here,  as  often  in  Martial,  the  jest  at  the  close  merely 
serves  to  frame  the  picture,  the  poem  being  written 
for  the  picture  itself.  This  is  still  more  the  case  in 
the  noble  sequel  (iii  58),  where  Bassus  appears 
again,  and  a  genuine  country-place  is  described  to 
him  by  way  of  contrast.     The  poet  has  few  things 

better: 

That  is  no  "country"  where  the  myrtle  grows, 
Bassus,  in  rigid  rows, 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  17 

And  shaven  box,  and  planes  without  a  vine 

In  many  a  useless  line. 
For  "country,"  see  Faustinus'  acres,  tilled 

To  the  last  corner,  filled 
With  fruitful  corn ;   see  many  a  storing-room 

With  autumn's  rich  perfume 
Replenished  yearly,  till,  November  past, 

The  raisin's  gathered  last. 
Wild  in  the  glen  the  bull-calves  fight  and  fret 

Their  foreheads  smooth  as  yet, 
The  grown  bulls  bellow  free.     The  feathered  train 

Spreads  in  a  roomy  plain  : 
There  the  shrill  goose  and  starry  peacock  run, 

Flamingoes,  like  the  sun 
Setting,  and  many  a  wing  of  speck  and  spot 

And  curious-painted  blot, 
Numidian,  Phasian,  Rhodian.     Housed  above, 

The  pigeon-kind  make  love, 
And  coo  to  coo  replies.     Here,  rough  and  rude, 

The  pushing  swine  for  food 
Follow  the  farm-wife's  apron ;   there  the  lamb 

Looks,  helpless,  for  its  dam. 
The  hearth  within,  where  cheery  logs  abound, 

Shows  chubby  faces  round; 
No  pale  and  sedentary  tapster  there ! 

(Your  draught  is  the  free  air) 
No  foul  gymnasium  !     Hunt,  and  fish,  and  toil, 

And  you  may  spare  your  oil. 
The  footman  in  his  glory  will  not  shirk 

A  little  garden-work, 
And  lads  who  ran  from  tasks,  no  more  afraid, 

Run  willing  to  the  spade. 
The  country  "callers"  from  the  neighbouring  lands 

Come  not  with  empty  hands ; 
With  gift  of  honey  in  the  comb  they  come, 

With  shapely  cheeses  some, 
With  dormice  half  asleep,  with  this  and  that, 
Kidlings  or  capons  fat. 

v.  L.  E.  2 


1 8  A  Roman  of  Greater'  Rome 

Eggs  in  a  basket,  or  such  housewife  thing, 

The  stately  lasses  bring 
"With  mother's  duty." — Hours  with  labour  blest 

Bring  supper  and  a  guest. 
The  country  table,  certain  not  to  fail, 

Saves  nothing  to  be  stale ; 
The  menials,  with  their  bellyful  at  least. 

Contented  serve  the  feast. — 
See,  Bassus,  see  all  this ;   then  boast  me  not 

Your  mean  suburban  plot, 
Some  laurels  and  a  scarecrow  (this  for  show, 

To  make  believe  things  grow). 
The  porridge  of  your  artificial  clown 

Comes  from  a  shop  in  town. 
The  sum  of  your  "  farm-labour "  is  to  cart 

Down  from  the  city  mart 
Eggs,  cheese,  greens,  poultry,  fruit.     Why  drive  so  far? 

You  were  in  town — and  are. 

Strange,  in  all  this  modernness,  are  the  occasional 
touches  that  tell  us  the  time ;  the  gymnasium  and  the 
"oil"  as  the  type  of  town-exercise,  and  the  page-lads, 
slaves  in  training  for  various  duties  in  the  great 
household,  for  whom  in  town  there  would  be  lessons 
to  do,  while  in  the  country  they  are  set,  to  their  great 
relief,  at  the  garden.  The  "dormice"  surprise  us  in 
the  list;  but  doubtless  there  would  be  enough  for  a 
dish,  a  favourite  dish.  But  no  detail  is  so  remark- 
able as  the  diffused  delight  in  the  apparatus  of  life, 
which  quickens  the  whole  :  if,  indeed,  I  can  hope 
that  anything  of  this  survives  in  the  translation. 
I  cannot  forbear  to  quote  for  their  sound  just  two 
verses ;  this  on  the  pigeon-house : 

Sonantque  turres  plausibus  colurabarum, 
and  this  exquisite  description  of  the  rustic  girls : 

Grandes  proborum  virgines  colonorum. 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  19 

The  age  when  this  last  could  be  written  was  assuredly 
not  without  its  better  aspects. 

The  poet  himself  had  a  country  cottage  and 
garden  in  his  wealthier  days.  He  makes  a  point 
of  sending  roses  from  it  to  a  dear  friend,  but  laments 
that  weightier  presents  have  to  come  "from  the 
shop."  Not  but  that  on  occasion  he  can  be  enthu- 
siastic also  over  the  "  rus  in  urbe."  He  has  one 
particularly  famous  picture  in  this  style  (iv  64), 
representing  what  must  really  have  been  a  charming 
house  and  from  its  situation  a  show-place  in  Rome. 
One  Julius  Martialis  (no  relation  to  the  poet,  whose 
family  name  was  Valerius),  a  man  of  some  distinction 
in  politics  and — at  least  as  a  patron  and  admirer — in 
literature,  had  a  sort  of  miniature  park  on  the  Jani- 
culan  Hill,  above  the  ancient  Mulvian  Bridge.  Lying 
on  the  west  of  Rome,  and  separated  from  the  mass 
of  it  by  the  winding  Tiber,  it  commanded  the  most 
interesting  view  in  the  world :  the  city  for  foreground, 
and  behind  it,  right  away  to  the  hills,  a  beautiful 
country,  crowded  with  legends  and  memories;  all 
the  towns  which  had  fought  with  Rome  when  Rome 
was  an  ambitious  village,  now  linked  to  each  other 
by  those  magnificent  roads  which  were  the  chief 
instrument  and  symbol  of  the  "  Roman  peace." 

"A  little  place" — Yet  not  the  blest 
In  the  Happy  Gardens  of  the  West 
Could  here  pronounce  their  dwelling  best. 

Better  does  Martialis  dwell. 

Janiculus  with  gentle  swell 

From  low  dull  air  uplifts  him  well 


20  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

To  skies  more  pure.     His  favoured  zone 

Enjoys  a  climate  of  its  own, 

A  heaven  brought  near  for  him  alone. 

All  the  Seven  Hills  of  queenly  Rome 
The  eye  may  take  from  this  fair  home, 
To  Alba,  Tusculum,  may  roam, 

Fidenae,  Rubrae,  names  of  yore, 
Perenna's  orchard  (heretofore 
Mishallowed  with  a  maiden's  gore)\ 

Two  noble  ways  you  hence  may  trace 
And  follow  there  the  chariot's  pace, 
By  sight  not  sound ;   to  this  high  place 

The  wheel  is  dumb.     The  boatman's  cheer, 
The  bargeman's  most  vociferous  jeer, 
Are  silent  to  the  sleeping  ear. 

Yet  that's  the  Mulvian,  past  a  doubt, 
That's  Tiber,  with  the  craft  about. 
"Am  I  in  town?"   you  say,  "or  out?" 

And  you  would  find  a  welcome  there 
So  frank  and  free,  so  debonnair, 
As  you  yourself  the  master  were. 

Alcinous-like  he  shares  his  state. 
Or  like  Molorchus,  grown  to  great 
For  keeping  of  an  open  gate. 

(Odysseus'  entertainer,  the  King  of  the  Phaeacians, 
is  moderately  famous  still;  but  as  to  Molorchus,  some 

^  "  Et  quae  virgineo  cruore  gaudet,  Annae  pomiferum  nemus 
Perennae."  The  legend,  apparently  of  the  Ij>htgenia  type,  is  not 
otherwise  known  in  connexion  with  the  old  Italian  deity,  Anna 
Perenna.  For  this  reason  (a  poor  one,  as  it  seems  to  me)  it  has 
been  supposed  that  there  is  some  error  here.  The  present  tense 
is  perhaps  "historical";  but  it  is  quite  possible  that  some  symbol 
of  the  sacrifice  was  actually  kept  up. 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  21 

may  not  disdain  to  be  informed  that  he  made  his 
fortune  by  entertaining  Hercules  unawares.) 

Ye  that  all  merit  see  in  size, 
Whom  all  a  township  scarce  supplies 
With  one  such  farm  as  satisfies : 

Seek  where  you  will  your  ample  space, 
If  only  you  will  give  me  grace 
Still  to  prefer  this  "Httle  place." 

Martial,  we  see,  like  other  professional  persons, 
could  plead  either  side  of  a  cause  for  a  proper  con- 
sideration, and  was  indeed  a  man  genuinely  pleased 
with  many  different  things.  But  he  had  his  bent  all 
the  while.  He  is  never  so  sparkling  and  elastic  as 
when  something  suggests  the  prospect  of  Spain  and 
of  rest  among  the  iron-forges  of  Bilbilis.  We  will 
put  here  together,  first  his  good-speed  to  a  fellow- 
countryman,  who,  having  made  a  fortune  at  law,  was 
going  back  to  the  West  (i  50);  and  secondly  the 
farewell  which  he  himself,  having  at  length  got 
enough  and  meaning  soon  to  return,  takes  of  another 
distinguished  Spaniard  whom  he  was  leaving  in  Italy 
(x  Zi)'  (The  strangest  thing  in  them,  to  our  eyes, 
is  the  "sport."  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  Roman 
gentlemen  took  their  sport  in  a  lazy  way.  I  should 
not  dare,  for  fear  of  ruining  Martial  right  out,  to  pro- 
duce here  certain  expostulations  which  he  addresses 
to  a  friend,  who  had  a  habit  of  hard  riding  after  the 
hare.)  The  first  of  these  pieces  is  among  the  earliest 
work,  the  second  among  the  very  latest,  of  Martial's 
career  at  Rome.  The  places  are  mostly  mere  names 
now,  but  they  have  a  quaint  and  interesting  sound. 


22  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 


Good-speed  ! 

O  theme  for  Celtiberian  lays, 

O  worthy  name  for  Spaniards'  praise ! 

And  are  you,  are  you  bound  for  Spain, 

To  see  high  BilbiUs  once  again 

(For  stream  and  stithy  a  town  of  pride)? 

Old  Gaius'  snows,  and  the  mountain  side 

Whence  breaks  Vadavero,  sacred  flood ! 

Boterdus'  screen  of  fragrant  wood. 

The  garden-goddess'  loved  retreat ! 

Shall  it  be  yours,  'twixt  cold  and  heat, 

To  bathe  where  Congedus  invites 

Soft  Naiads  to  his  soft  delights? 

That  softness  then  to  brace  and  cool 

In  steely  Salo's  tempering  pool? 

Then  in  Voberca's  teeming  chace 

To  make  your  bag  from  the  lunching-place  I 

Or  break  the  summer's  sultry  powers 

In  the  deep  dark  of  Tagus'  bowers, 

With  fresh  Dercenna  and  Nutha's  drench 

Better  than  ice  your  thirst  to  quench ! 

When  enters  with  December  hoar 

The  bellowing  North-wind,  fierce  and  frore, 

You'll  seek  the  Tarraconian  coast 

And  "lang-syne"  Laletanian  host. 

There  for  your  nets  are  fallow  deer. 

Boars  "on  the  premises"  for  your  spear. 

And  dodging  hares  to  breathe  your  horse 

(The  stags  your  rustic  best  may  course). 

Almost  the  forest  lays  its  logs 

(So  near  it  grows)  upon  the  dogs. 

The  household  gathers  in  the  hall 

Easy  and  happy;  just  a  call 

Will  bring  the  huntsman. — Lay  aside 

The  gown,  the  badge  of  irksome  pride; 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  23 

Its  purple  stinks  \     You  need  not  here 
Go  shivering  to  some  levee  drear. 
You  wake  not  here  to  meet  forlorn 
Pale  business  ghastly  as  the  morn, 
The  pauper's  drone,  the  lady's  scorn — 
Sleep  on.     Let  others  tear  the  laws 
For  the  sweet  poison  of  applause. 
You,  in  the  triumphs  of  your  boy, 
Find  a  more  pure,  more  wholesome  joy. 
When  most  of  life  is  paid  for  fame, 
Life  claims  the  rest — a  modest  claim. 

As  we  follow  the  traveller  from  region  to  region 
of  this  Roman  province,  so  interesting  but  for  the 
most  part  so  dim  to  us,  we  must  wish  once  more 
that  he  had  somewhere  given  us  more  full  and  more 
precise  descriptions.  Writing  almost  wholly  in  Italy, 
and  for  a  gay  pleasure-loving  public,  it  is  commonly, 
as  here,  for  its  material  ease  and  abundance  that  he 
contrasts  his  unexhausted  country  with  the  "struggle 
for  existence"  in  the  region  of  the  capital.  But  he 
could  have  told  us  many  curious  things,  if  he  would. 
Once  (iv  55)  he  runs  over  a  list  of  Spanish  places, 
just  to  laugh  (for  the  benefit  of  Italians)  at  their 
strange  sounds,  but  maintaining  at  the  same  time 
with  proper  pride  that  they  are  very  good  names, 
and  that  Italy  had  worse.  Some  of  the  touches 
with  which  he  adorns  his  catalogue  must  be  pain- 
fully exciting  to  a  Celtic  archaeologist.  What  was 
the  sanction,  religious  or  secular,  which  "protected 
the  dances  of  Rixamae  "  ?    In  whose  name  and  with 

^  This  literal  fact  (for  the  Tyrian  dye  was  apt  to  be  very 
unsavoury)  is  here  used  with  pungent  effect. 


24  A  Roman  of  Greater""  Rome 

what  ceremony  did  the  folk  assemble  for  "the  holi- 
day banquet  of  Carduae "  ?  What  mysteries  did 
Burado  cover  in  its  "grove  of  oaks,"  and  for  what 
mysterious  reason  must  every  traveller,  however 
little  disposed  to  walk,  dismount  or  diverge  so  as 
to  pass  through  it  ?  What,  above  all,  was  there  at 
Rigae,  for  which  Martial  takes  the  nearest  Roman 
term  to  be  "  our  fathers'  antique  theatre "  ?  A 
"theatre"  in  the  common  sense,  such  as  the  Romans 
copied  from  the  Greeks,  his  fathers  had  certainly  not 
built  there.  Was  it  perhaps  a  "ring"  of  banks,  or 
of  great  stones,  after  the  Celtic  fashion  known  else- 
where ?  But  we  must  leave  these  disquisitions  for 
others,  and  return  to  our  business  of  seeing  Martial 
himself  to  his  Spanish  home,  and  of  presenting  in 
English  his  happy 

Farewell. 

King  of  the  Courts,  whose  lips  maintain 

By  honest  truth  their  legal  reign, 

What  orders,  friend  and  fellow-townsman, 

What  orders,  hey !   for  the  Spanish  main  ? 
Why  care  you  here  to  pull  the  line 
For  dog-fish  (if  your  chance  be  fine), 
While  there  they  fling  the  mullet,  wanting 

His  full  three  pounds,  to  his  native  brine? 
Why  choose  to  swell  a  meagre  bill 
With  sapless  whelk  or  tasteless  squill. 
While  Spain  has  oysters,  such  profusion, 

The  very  lackeys  may  eat  their  fill? 

Why  this  halloo  a  fox  to  scare, 
Stinking  and  snapping,  to  the  snare? 
My  nets  in  Spain,  ere  yet  from  ocean 
The  hemp  be  dry,  will  be  round  a  hare. 


A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome  25 

Here  comes  your  fisher — nothing  ta'en ; 
Your  huntsman — of  a  weasel  vain. 
The  town  must  keep  your  seaside  table. 
What  orders,  hey !    for  the  Spanish  main  ? 

Naturally  the  poet,  when  he  had  got  his  will, 
did  not  find  all  that  he  hoped.  Who  ever  did } 
Nothing  proves  that  he  ever  regretted  his  return. 
But  he  felt  more  keenly  what  he  had  left  behind. 
Doubtless  the  disadvantages  of  Bilbilis  told  more 
in  reality  than  in  fancy.  His  Roman  taste  had 
become  more  fastidious ;  and — he  was  getting  old. 
Some  of  his  last  verses  come  as  near  melancholy  as 
any  of  his  bright  and  equal  writing.  It  could  not 
be  otherwise.  It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  know  that 
he  got  a  garden,  and  was  able  to  call  himself,  as  he 
had  called  his  friends  in  the  capital,  "as  happy  as 
Alcinous  and  the  Hesperides."  He  even  married 
a  garden,  the  dower  of  a  certain  Marcella  of  Bilbilis \ 
and  thanks  her  gracefully  for  the  gift.  He  was  able 
to  thank  her  also  for  nobler  consolation.  We  cannot 
end  better  than  with  the  little  poem  (xii  21)  in  which 
he  praises  her,  not  without  pathos,  for  her  Roman 
culture.      It  ought  to  be   remembered,  when  vials 

'  Whether  he  had  ever  been  married  before  is  uncertain. 
Some  of  his  poems  mention  a  "wife,"  but  she  is  never  named, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  say  in  his  writings  how  much  is  literary 
fiction.  Marcella  certainly  did  not  become  his  wife  till  after  his 
return.  It  should,  perhaps,  be  noticed,  that  she  has  been  sup- 
posed to  have  been  the  poet's  patron,  and  not  his  wife.  The 
evidence  is  chiefly  contained  in  the  above  poem,  which,  I  confess, 
leaves  little  doubt  in  my  mind.  She  was  in  any  case  his  best  and 
most  intimate  friend,  and  the  question  scarcely  concerns  us  here. 


26  A  Roman  of  Greater  Rome 

of  wrath  are  poured  upon  the  Rome  of  Nero  and 
Domitian,  that  a  man,  certainly  not  without  keen 
sensibilities  of  mind  and  heart,  when  he  wanted  to 
show  how  highly  he  valued  the  companion  whom 
he  had  chosen  to  be  with  him  till  death,  could 
think  of  no  words  higher  than  these — "You,  and  you 
only,  bring  me  Rome  /  " 

Who  could  believe  that  such  as  thou  couldst  grow 
In  this  our  burgh,  by  this  our  iron  stream? 

Thy  thoughts  make  other  music  than  we  know, 
And,  heard  in  Caesar's  court,  would  native  seem. 

No  child  of  the  mid  City  is  thy  peer; 

To  thee  the  Capitol's  best  daughter  yields; 
To  win  a  Roman  heart,  for  many  a  year 

No  worthier  flower  shall  bloom  in  foreign  fields. 

Thou,  only  thou,  dost  soothe  my  fond  regret 

For  that  fair  Queen.     I  have  something  Roman  yet. 


■      '  '      '  -r-  ■  ■'  •  , 


AN   OLD   LOVE   STORY 

About  twenty  years  before  Christ,  while  the 
first  Augustus  of  the  newly  established  empire,  sick 
in  body  and  sorrowing  for  the  recent  death  of  his 
only  heir,  was  gone  with  his  legions  to  set  in  order 
the  still  unquiet  East,  and  to  vindicate  the  national 
honour  by  recovering  from  his  Parthian  neighbour 
the  standards  lost,  a  generation  earlier,  at  Carrhae, 
there  appeared  at  Rome,  in  complete  and  final 
shape,  a  book  of  verse,  destined  to  exercise  through 
remarkable  vicissitudes  of  fortune  a  long,  and  yet 
unexhausted,  effect  upon  literature.  It  was  divided 
into  Three  Parts,  and  comprised  some  eighty  poems, 
varying  in  length  from  near  a  hundred  lines  to  six. 
It  was  written  in  the  couplets  traditionally  appro- 
priated to  the  tender  passion,  and  presented,  in  the 
form  of  a  personal  confession  by  the  poet,  the 
beginning,  consequences,  and  end  of  a  censurable 
and  unhappy  attachment. 

Both  the  author  and  his  Cynthia  were  already 
well  known  to  the  public.  The  First  Part,  complete 
in  itself,  had  come  out  under  the  same  title  before, 
and  the  fame  of  it  had  spread,  we  are  told,  to  the 


28  An  Old  Love  Story 

steppes  of  the  Dnieper,  to  the  obscure  Hmits  of  the 
civilized  world.  The  author,  Sextus  Propertius, 
belonged,  with  Virgil  and  Horace,  to  the  high  court 
of  letters,  the  circle  of  the  minister  Maecenas.  And 
over  his  pensioned  compeers,  the  son  of  the  farmer 
and  the  son  of  the  freedman,  he  had  considerable 
temporary  advantages.  By  birth  he  was  probably 
at  least  the  equal  of  the  minister  himself,  whose 
pedigree  was  of  the  kind  suspiciously  antique  ;  and 
in  fortune  he  was  independent.  He  belonged  to 
"what  we  should  call  a  good  county  family^"  of  the 
neighbourhood  of  Perugia.  While  he  was  a  child 
his  father  died,  and  he  was  deprived  in  some  way  of 
a  large  estate ;  but  he  can  still  speak  of  himself  as 
"  not  very  rich,"  and  his  story  requires  us  to  suppose 
that,  in  one  way  or  another,  his  circumstances  were 
easy.  If,  as  it  seems,  he  was  not  on  good  terms 
with  Horace,  we  can  easily  account  for  friction 
between  two  literary  rivals  moving  in  good  society, 
one  of  whom  had  the  usual  passports  for  entering 
there,  while  the  other  was  often  reminded  un- 
pleasantly that  he  had  not.  Of  Virgil  he  speaks 
with  profound  deference  ;  but  Virgil  had  written  the 
Georgics,  and  thus  placed  himself  practically  beyond 
competition,  before  Propertius  entered  the  field. 

^  I  take  this  opportunity  of  acknowledging  my  debt,  as  a 
reader  of  Propertius,  to  my  friend  Dr  Postgate.  There  are 
naturally  points  in  this  article  on  which  he  or  others  might  not 
agree  with  me,  but  these  pages  are  not  a  suitable  place  for  dis- 
cussion. My  references  are  to  the  text  edited  by  Prof.  A.  Palmer, 
a  delightful  little  book. 


An   Old  Love  Story  29 

It  would  seem  strange,  and  perhaps  absurd,  to 
say  of  a  man  whose  reputation  is  not  of  the  first 
order,  and  whose  chief  work  was  contemporaneous 
with  the  Odes  and  the  Aeneid,  that  he  was  in  any 
sense  the  best  poet  of  his  time.  And  yet,  without 
defiance  of  common  opinion,  this  might  be  said  of 
Propertius.  We  have  only  to  choose  appropriately, 
among  the  various  qualities  which  go  to  "poetry," 
the  quality  which  we  will  regard  as  essential.  It  is 
a  not  uncommon  view,  that  the  vivid  and  apparently 
spontaneous  expression  of  feeling  is  of  the  essence 
of  poetry,  and  that  no  subtlety  of  linguistic  art  can 
compensate  for  the  want  of  it.  For  such  a  taste 
Roman  literature  supplies  small  satisfaction,  and 
Augustan  literature  very  small  indeed,  a  fact  put 
bluntly  by  the  accomplished  critic  who  said  that, 
after  Catullus  and  Lucretius,  the  Romans  had  no 
poetry  at  all.  The  only  writer  of  the  Augustan 
age  for  whom  on  these  principles  much  could  be 
said,  is  Propertius.  If  he  and  his  rivals  could  be  in 
some  way  represented  by  equivalents  of  our  own 
time,  it  is  quite  possible  that  by  the  majority  the 
modern  Virgil  and  the  modern  Horace  would  be 
much  more  admired  than  loved  ;  it  is  certain  that  the 
modern  Propertius  would  become  rapidly  popular 
wherever  English  is  read.  But  the  world,  now 
supplied  with  many  good  literatures,  naturally  goes 
to  each  for  what  it  offers  best ;  and  has  long  sought 
the  Roman  not  for  passion  at  all,  but  for  "  lo  bello 
stile  che  I'ha  fatto  onore."  The  Aeneid  w2iS  turned 
into  a  school-book  the  moment  it  was  written,  and 


30  An  Old  Love  Story 

a  school-book  of  the  human  race  it  has  been,  and 
will  be.  For  such  purposes  there  could  not  well 
be  anything  less  suitable  than  Cynthia.  Signs, 
however,  indicate  that  the  long  tutelage  of  mankind 
by  Latin  may  soon  end  or  be  interrupted.  Should 
this  take  place,  one  result  may  be  that  those  who  do 
go  to  Latin  will  go  to  it  more  for  pleasure  and  less 
for  literary  training ;  and  in  that  case,  though  Virgil 
and  Horace  will  not  descend,  the  reputation  of 
Propertius  will  relatively  rise,  as  in  fact  it  has  lately 
risen.  Meanwhile  we  may  at  all  events  spend  a 
few  minutes  over  a  book  which  has  made  great 
poetry  again  and  again,  and  could  "spur  an  imitative 
zeal "  in  no  less  a  mind  than  that  of  Goethe. 

We  will  look  first  at  the  original  Cynthia,  now 
represented  by  Part  L  It  is  supposed  to  have  been 
published  near  the  year  25,  when  the  real  Propertius 
was  about  twenty-five  years  old.  How  much  in  it  was 
fact  and  how  much  fiction  we  do  not  and  need  not 
know.  At  the  conclusion  the  poet,  after  a  common 
Roman  fashion,  makes  a  few  brief  statements  about 
his  origin,  just  sufficient  for  personal  identification. 
In  the  rest  of  the  book,  as  in  the  two  later  Parts, 
there  is,  for  a  work  of  the  kind,  a  remarkable  want 
of  detail  in  place,  time,  and  circumstance.  It  was 
plainly  never  intended  for  a  roman  a  clef.  The 
hero  is  a  youth  without  occupation,  whose  first 
serious  love,  when  the  work  opens,  has  lasted  a 
year :  he  may  be  supposed,  according  to  Italian 
ideas,  perhaps  twenty  years  old,  not  more.  His 
story   might   be   that  of  any  such  youth.     Equally 


An  Old  Love  Story  31 

typical  is  the  description  of  the  heroine.  It  was  be- 
lieved in  the  second  century  a.d.,  that  she  answered 
to  an  original  in  real  life,  whose  name  was  Hostia ; 
but  the  statement,  if  true,  is  of  no  importance.  The 
Cynthia  of  the  poems  is  a  woman  without  position, 
family,  or  connexions  (except  a  mother)  of  any 
kind,  sustaining  by  her  beauty  and  accomplishments 
an  extravagant  life.  Her  accomplishments  include 
a  fine  taste  in  literature,  or  at  least  such  is  the 
persuasion  of  the  enamoured  poet.  About  her 
character  her  lover  is  never  deceived,  except  wilfully 
by  himself.  His  very  first  words  are  a  lament  that 
in  the  pursuit  of  her  he  has  become  utterly  im- 
provident, and  has  lost  the  taste  for  honest  society. 
Around  the  principal  figures  are  grouped  three  or 
four  other  youths — a  Tullus,  Gallus,  Bassus,  Ponticus 
— such  friends  as  a  gentleman  and  a  poet  would  be 
likely  to  have,  young,  passionate,  and  literary,  but 
not  characterized  with  much  distinctness.  Ponticus 
is  at  work  on  an  epic,  and  looks  with  much  contempt 
on  lesser  ambitions.  His  elegiac  friend  thinks  the 
epic  equal  to  Homer,  but  warns  him  that  he  will 
find  hexameters  of  little  use  when  he  falls  in  love, 
which  presently  comes  to  pass.  Bassus  is  a  lyrist 
in  the  "  Adeline  "  and  "  Madeline  "  stage,  but  cannot, 
with  his  gallery  of  beauties,  distract  the  devotee  of 
Cynthia.  Gallus  seems  to  be  a  relation,  as  ardent 
as  the  poet  himself,  and  exchanges  with  him 
rapturous  confidences ;  while  Tullus,  a  calmer  and 
not  active  personage,  is  his  monitor,  and  his  auditor 
when  he  bewails  his  folly  or  talks  about  his  family. 


k'- 


32  An  Old  Love  Story 

The  machinery  is  of  the  simplest  kind,  and  might 
have  been  perfectly  uninteresting. 

But,  such  as  it  is,  it  is  enough  for  Propertius. 
Those  who,  for  a  study  in  grammar,  have  been 
conducted  for  some  time  up  and  down  the  undula- 
tions of  Ovid,  would  be  astonished  to  find  what  the 
compass  of  the  couplet  is,  when  touched  by  a  poet 
of  earnest  and  delicate  feeling.  Propertius  has  all 
sorts  of  faults.  He  is  often  obscure,  he  is  sometimes 
dull.  He  strains  his  language,  brusques  his  transi- 
tions, and  twists  his  thoughts.  But  there  is  one 
word  that  never  applies  to  him,  a  word  that  haunts 
disagreeably  the  reader  of  much  Latin  literature. 
He  is  never  vulgar.  Every  thought,  we  are  sure, 
has  really  been  thought  by  this  particular  man. 
Even  the  commonplace,  of  which  he  has  plenty,  is 
Propertian,  and  not  the  commonplace  which  is 
common.  His  grain  is  grain,  and  there  is  no 
"vacant  chaff."  Such  a  man  can  but  very  imper- 
fectly speak  for  himself  in  translation.  But  we  must 
do  our  best  when  there  seems  to  be  a  chance. 

The  remorseful  introduction  already  mentioned 
is  followed  by  a  gentle  expostulation  with  Cynthia 
upon  her  needless  finery  : 

Thou  canst  not  mend  thy  face :    Love,  going  bare, 
Loves  not  that  beauty  should  be  made  with  art. 

In  the  third  poem  the  full  splendour  of  the  poet 
breaks  out.  Deep  in  the  night  Cynthia  is  found 
asleep,  and  the  youth,  from  experience,  is  afraid  to 
awaken  her.  The  picture,  in  the  realism  of  its 
grace,  was  probably  then  an  entirely  novel  thing. 


An  Old  Love  Story  33 

Neither  has  it,  in  its  kind,  been  superseded  by  the 
innumerable  imitations. 

I  gazed,  with  Argus'  fixed  and  wondering  look 

At  lo  guised  with  horns.     Anon  I  took 

And  softly  set  on  Cynthia's  marble  brow 

The  wreath  that  was  upon  mine  own,  and  now 

Raised  the  loose  hair,  and  shaped  the  scattered  strands, 

Or  slipped  sly  gifts  into  the  open  hands, 

A  fruit,  a  flower.     Dull  slumber  took  them  all, 

Nor  thanked  me,  and  too  oft  the  lap  let  fall. 

And  if  she  stirred  or  sighed,  at  every  turn 

My  folly  still  a  meaning  would  discern, 

And  thought  perchance,  my  Cynthia,  thou  didst  seem 

To  fly  some  lover  show7i  thee  in  a  dream. 

The  moon  from  window  on  to  window  crept. 
And  teased  at  length  the  eyes  that  lingering  slept, 
With  gentle  ray  the  seal  of  slumber  brake. 
Upon  her  pillowed  arm  she  rose,  and  spake : 
"At  last  thou  art  dismissed,  at  last  I  see. 
Turned  from  some  other  door,  thou  com'st  to  me ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  this  weary  while,  that  I 
Have  watched  the  stars  go  slowly,  slowly  by? 
To  know  thy  cruelty,  thyself  must  spend 
Such  long  dark  hours,  and  sicken  for  the  end. 
How  oft,  how  long,  my  needle  did  I  tire, 
How  often  wake,  for  change,  the  unwilling  lyre  ! 
Sometimes,  in  pity  of  my  lonely  state, 
I  did  lament  of  others'  happier  fate, 
A  little,  and  but  gently.     Ere  I  slept 
This  was  the  latest  thought  on  which  I  wept." 

I  have  marked  here  the  passage  which  I  think 
most  characteristic.  Nothing  surely  can  be  more 
exquisitely  subtle  than  this  half-conscious  "folly," 
which  interprets  trifles  first  instinctively,  according 

V.  L.  E.  X 


34  ^'^  Old  Love  Story 

to  what  it  knows  to  be  true,  and  then  wilfully,  by 
what  it  chooses  to  believe.  And  how  superb  are 
the  secure  falsehoods  of  the  confident  beauty ! 

Perhaps  no  other  poem  in  the  First  Part  comes 
up  to  this.  The  next  four  poems,  as  well  as  the 
ninth  and  tenth,  are  addressed  to  the  friends,  and 
something  has  been  said  of  them  already.  The 
feeling  of  them  all  (and  it  is  their  chief  merit)  is 
delightfully  young  and  fresh.  In  the  sixth,  Tullus, 
the  monitor,  has  made  the  reasonable  suggestion 
that  the  narrator  should  go  with  him  for  a  voyage 
in  the  East,  and  has  tried  the  effect  of  impeaching 
his  courage.  He  replies  that,  as  far  as  that  goes, 
he  would  accompany  Tullus  to  the  world's  end ;  but 
that  not  for  all  the  sights  in  the  world  would  he  see 
Cynthia  so  miserable  as  she  threatens  to  be  : 

What  should  I  gain  to  see  fair  Athens'  arts. 

If  Cynthia  cursed  me  while  the  ship  was  launched? 
When  tears  of  blood  ran  down  her  visage  blanched, 

What  should  I  care  for  Asia's  ancient  marts? 

language  which  long  afterwards  he  was  bitterly  to 
remember.  In  the  eighth  poem,  with  a  certain 
irony  of  contrast,  it  is  found  that  Cynthia  is  on  the 
point  of  leaving  with  a  wealthy  suitor  for  Greece, 
but  she  is  dissuaded  by  the  poet,  who  attributes  his 
success  wholly  to  the  power  of  his  verse,  and  flatters 
himself  that  after  this  proof  of  his  strength  he  is 
sure  for  ever.  He  is  soon  taught,  however,  that  his 
Muse  can  by  no  means  dispense  with  the  material 
aids  of  the  purse  (xi — xv).  Cynthia  is  gone  to 
the  great  watering-place  of  Baiae,  the  Brighton  or 


An  Old  Love  Stoiy  35 

Scarborough  of  the  day,  whither  the  poet  has  not 
followed  her.  This  seems  at  first  strange,  as  there 
is  no  hint  of  a  quarrel,  and  he  is  extremely  doleful 
at  the  separation ;  but  it  is  explained  when  we 
discover,  certainly  without  surprise,  that  his  affairs 
are  in  disorder.  This  disclosure  is  made  with  much 
humour.  In  xiv  the  poet,  with  some  heat,  assures 
Tullus,  who  would  appear  to  have  been  improving 
the  occasion,  that  really  he  does  not  care  for  wealth,* 
being  possessed  of  love  : 

Unenvied  you,  the  rich,  by  Tiber's  side, 
Quaffing  your  priceless  cup,  may  lie  at  large, 

And  wonder  that  the  skiffs  so  swiftly 'glide, 
Or  wonder  that  so  slowly  stems  the  barge. 

These  opening  lines  may  be  noted  in  passing  for 
their  delicate  description  of  utter  indolence.  But, 
alas!  the  "peril  of  my  fortune"  is  announced  at 
Baiae,  and  Cynthia,  instead  of  hurrying  back,  does 
not  seem  to  understand  that  the  danger  is  "  ours," 
and  continues  to  study  her  daily  toilet,  unmoved 
by  the  poetic  assurance  that  none  of  the  faithful 
heroines  of  Greek  legend,  neither  Calypso,  Hypsi- 
pyle,  Evadne,  nor  Alphesiboea,  would  have  behaved 
so,  and  that  she  is  forfeiting  the  prospect  of  an 
equal  renown.  After  this  the  lover  is  forced  to  open 
his  eyes  (xvi).  He  seeks  solitude  both  on  sea 
and  on  land  (xvii,  xviii),  and  is  discontented  with 
himself  for  seeking  it.  He  repeats  the  beloved 
and  unworthy  name  to  the  woods,  carves  it  on  the 
trees,  and  generally  conducts  himself  in  the  expected 
manner.     Finally  (xix)  he  falls  into  an  expectation 

3—2 


36  An   Old  Love  Story 

of  death,  and  builds  some  hope  of  reconciliation  on 
this  pathetic  subject.  There  the  book  ends,  so  far 
as  Cynthia  is  concerned.  The  last  two  poems  form 
the  personal  epilogue,  and,  taken  together,  suggest 
the  relationship  of  the  author  to  Gallus.  Before 
these  two  is  put  a  piece  unconnected  either  with 
Cynthia  or  with  Propertius,  a  charming  and  often 
imitated  version  of  the  story  of  Hylas  carried  away 
by  the  water-nymphs.  It  seems  intended  as  a 
specimen  of  the  author's  power  in  narrative  proper, 
and  by  an  address  to  Gallus  is  loosely  tacked  into 
its  place. 

Such  in  very  brief  outline  is  the  First  Part  of 
Cynthia.  As  will  have  been  seen,  though  the  pieces, 
where  connected  by  allusion,  are  naturally  placed  in 
the  order  of  time,  the  whole  can  scarcely  be  called  a 
story.  There  is  but  slight  development,  and  after 
the  year  supposed  to  have  elapsed  at  the  beginning 
there  is  no  hint  of  date.  The  time  allotted  to  the 
proceedings  may  be  whatever  the  reader  thinks 
suitable.  We  may  note  also  of  this  part  that  it 
really  is,  what  it  calls  itself,  a  book  in  praise  of 
Cynthia.  The  lover's  expostulations  are  extremely 
moderate,  and  his  tenderness  is  rather  increased 
than  diminished.  A  more  curious  point  is  this. 
The  introductory  poem  is  full  of  self-reproach ;  the 
speaker  knows  himself  to  be  in  the  way  to  ruin  and 
degradation,  and  would  thankfully  be  rescued,  were 
it  possible.  Nothing  of  the  sort  occurs  in  this  Part 
again ;  and  it  may  well  be  suspected  that  when 
Cynthia   was    expanded    to    its   present    form,    the 


An  Old  Love  Story  37 

introduction  was  modified  to  suit,  as  it  does,  not  the 
First  Part,  but  the  entire  work. 

For,  whatever  Propertius  may  have  intended, 
circumstances  did  not  leave  him  perfectly  free.  His 
reputation  opened  to  him  the  official  circle,  and  he 
entered  it.  The  Second  Part  begins  with  an  address 
to  Maecenas,  and  we  soon  discover  that  we  are  in 
an  altered  atmosphere.  He  was  told,  though  he 
did  not  need  to  be  told,  that  his  new  patron  had 
taken  him  not  for  performance  but  for  promise.  He 
has  defined  his  position  neatly  by  reference  to  the 
rise  of  Virgil.  The  minister  and  the  emperor  are 
pressing  for  a  historical  Roman  epic,  for  something 
parallel  to  the  growing  Aeneid,  and  Propertius  can 
only  answer  that  he  has  not  risen  even  to  the 
Georgics  yet,  but  is  still  in  the  amatory  region  of 
the  Idylls^.  But  indeed  he  was  something  worse 
off  than  this.  His  Cynthia,  so  far  as  it  went,  went 
the  wrong  way.  Augustus  wanted  a  reform  of 
manners,  and  wanted  above  all  to  repeople  desolate 
Italy  with  soldiers  and  citizens.  He  was  already 
struggling  to  legislate  in  favour  of  marriage,  and 
against  precisely  the  sort  of  connexion  which 
Cynthia  celebrated.  How  peremptorily  he  could 
deal  with  literature,  both  Horace  and  Ovid "  in 
different  ways  were  to  prove.  Evidently,  either 
Propertius  must  forgo  the  obvious  path  of  ambi- 
tion, or  Cynthia  must  stop,  or  Cynthia  continued 
must  take  a  new  turn.     We  can  easily  understand 

^  n    I,   and  11    10,  particularly   w    10,   25,    26.     See   Georg. 
II  176. 


38  An  Old  Love  Story 

why  the  rising  author  decided  on  the  third  way,  and 
added  to  his  first  picture  of  enchantment  a  second  of 
disillusion,  and  a  third  of  deliverance.  The  Second 
Part  expressly  promises  the  Third,  and  the  two, 
though  perhaps  published  separately,  were  projected 
together. 

It  is  of  course  impossible  here  to  examine  the 
whole,  and  we  must  be  content  with  a  glance  at  the 
principal  groups.  The  Second  Part,  as  it  is  the 
longest,  is  also  in  my  judgment  the  most  interesting. 
The  mental  and  physical  charms  of  Cynthia  still 
exert  their  full  force,  and  the  lover,  without  real 
effort,  remains  her  servant.  But  he  can  deceive 
himself  no  longer.  A  few  pieces  of  eloquent  de- 
scription are  followed  (v,  vi)  by  a  fearful  outburst 
of  rage  and  denunciation,  recurring  in  various  forms 
at  frequent  intervals.  The  reproach  of  himself, 
which  after  the  introductory  warning  disappears 
from  the  First  Part,  is  now  frequently  upon  his  lips. 
But  against  pressure  from  without  he  is  fiercely 
defiant.  A  social  enactment  enforcing  marriage  has 
lately  been  put  forward  by  the  Emperor.  The 
lover  declares  that  he  would  sooner  die  than  wed 
(for  a  marriage  with  Cynthia,  it  should  be  observed, 
would  not  have  satisfied  the  law).  They  rejoice 
together  when  the  law  is  withdrawn,  a  scene  of 
telling  irony,  for  in  fact  the  moment  is  one  of  the 
few  glimpses  of  happiness  in  this  division  of  the 
story,  and  it  is  clear  that  Cynthia,  who  for  the  most 
part  keeps  no  measures  with  her  victim  any  longer, 
has   really   been    frightened    by   the   proposal    into 


An   Old  Love  Story  39 

a  passing  gentleness.  Two  other  reconciliations 
occur.  The  poet,  with  the  same  complacency  so 
amusingly  presented  in  the  earlier  part,  attributes 
each  to  an  artistic  success.  We  will  try  to  show 
something  of  both  the  poems  so  distinguished,  for 
the  opinion  of  Propertius  on  his  own  work  is  not 
to  be  despised.  The  first  time  (xiii,  xiv,  xv)  he 
tries  again  the  familiar  pathos  of  foreseeing  his 
death,  a  way,  as  he  says  with  delicate  satire,  so 
obvious  that  he  ought  not  to  have  missed  it.  He 
now  goes  the  length  of  arranging  his  funeral : 

No  masked  procession  show  my  pedigree. 

Nor  let  the  trumpet  wail  (what  use?)  for  me. 

Lay  not  the  corpse  upon  an  ivory  bed, 

No  broidered  coverlet  beneath  me  spread. 

Give  me  no  train  of  mourners,  give  me  just 

The  meanest  following  of  a  pauper's  dust. 

A  train  of  Three  shall  satisfy  my  pride — 

My  Books,  a  royal  gift  for  Pluto's  bride. 

But  thou  shalt  follow  there,  and  beat  thy  breast, 

And  call  my  name,  and  call,  and  never  rest ; 

Kiss  the  cold  lips,  aye,  kiss  them,  till  the  pyre 

Is  crowned  with  spices  and  awaits  the  fire. 

Then  let  me,  all  to  dust  and  ashes  turned, 

In  vessel  small  and  earthen  be  inurned. 

And  where  they  burned  me,  as  memorial  due, 

Set  me  a  bay  for  shade,  and  verses  two : 

"The  slave,  whose  reHcs  this  is  set  above, 

Had  but  one  only  Lord,  whose  name  was  Love." 

Posterity  has  confirmed  the  poet's  judgment,  and 
has  given  this  poem  a  wide  and  perpetual  fame.  It 
has  also  generally  agreed  with  him  in  admiring  still 
more  the  other  professedly  successful  piece  in  the 


40  An  Old  Love  Story 

book,  a  desperate  effort  which  follows  the  dead 
failure  of  an  allusion  to  the  old  topics  of  death  and 
poetic  immortality  (xxiv,  xxv,  xxvi).  He  tries  a 
different  pathos. 

I  dreamed.     Ah,  dearest !  near  a  sinking  ship 
I  saw  thee  faintly  beat  the  drowning  sea. 

Drenched  was  thy  heavy  hair,  and  ah  !  thy  lip 
Confessed  the  falsehoods  it  hath  told  to  me. 

Thus  Helle,  when  the  golden  beast  she  rode, 
Tossed  on  the  waves,  thought  I  in  deadly  fear. 

Like  Helle,  Cynthia  too,  my  thought  forbode,  . 
May  name  a  sea,  and  ask  the  traveller's  tear. 

I  cried  to  heaven,  to  Neptune,  Leda's  Twain, 

Leucothea  too,  a  woman  once  as  thou. 
Thy  hands  are  lifted  feebly  from  the  main, 

Thou  criest  on  me,  and  thou  art  dying  now ! 

Had  but  the  merman  king  beheld  thine  eyes, 
Thou  must  have  been  his  queen.     The  whitest  face, 

The  bluest  locks  in  ocean,  with  surprise 

And  jealous  murmur,  must  have  given  thee  place. 

But  see,  a  dolphin  darting  to  thy  side ! 

(The  same  Arion,  harping,  rode  upon?) 
I  would  have  flung  me  in  the  waves;   I  tried, 

I  struggled,  agonized — the  dream  was  gone. 

The  reader  may  find  here,  as  high  as  it  can  be 
traced,  the  beginning  of  many  a  fertile  stream  of 
poetry.  There  is  a  detail  which,  though  not  im- 
portant in  the  piece  itself,  affords  afterwards  a 
curious  illustration  of  the  variety  of  Propertius  in 
working  up  his  topics.  One  would  scarcely  suspect 
anything  personal  to  Cynthia  in  the  "  blueness  "  of 
the    sea-nymphs'    tresses ;    for    Cynthia's    hair   was 


An  Old  Love  Story  41 

brown.  But  a  new  light  is  thrown  back  on  it  after- 
wards, when  in  another  mood  the  lover  twits  the 
lady  with  her  small  success  in  a  whimsical  attempt 
at  black : 

If  one  I  know  will  turn  her  tresses  d/ug, 
Say,  does  that  prove  it  a  becoming  hue? 

But  beautiful  as  are  these  golden  threads  in  the 
Second  Part,  they  are  far  more  effective  in  the  web. 
The  last  in  particular  comes  as  a  delicious  relief 
after  a  frantic  episode  (xxii — xxv),  in  which  the 
narrator  plunges  low  indeed  in  search  of  dissipa- 
tion, with  the  only  result  of  deepening  his  disgust 
and  self-contempt.  It  is  well  worth  notice  that  this 
incident  and  all  the  like  element  in  the  book  is,  so 
far  as  we  know,  entirely  original,  a  new  thing  in 
literature.  Certainly  it  was  not  taken  from  the 
Greek.  The  moment  was  critical.  The  Dipsychzis 
was  becoming  conscious  of  his  two  souls,  and  the 
breach  was  before  long  to  be  widened  into  an  agony 
which  re-created  the  world.  The  mental  dialogue 
which  begins  thus, 

I,  that  should  have  disdained  the  common  road, 
Now  drink,  delighted,  of  its  very  pools  ! 

is  worth  volumes  of  declamatory  satire. 

From  the  triumph  which  rewards  the  "dream" 
we  pass,  by  a  singularly  skilful  transition,  into  a 
wholly  fresh  episode.  The  dream  leads  naturally 
to  the  thought,  that  a  death  at  sea,  with  Cynthia, 
would  not  be  unacceptable,  and  this  to  a  little  piece 
of  false  rhetoric  on  the  theme,  that  among  the 
uncertainties   of  life  he  alone  knows  the  destined 


42  An   Old  Love  Story 

manner  of  his  death,  who  will  live  or  die  by  the 
kindness  or  cruelty  of  his  mistress  ;  when  suddenly 
truth  avenges  itself  upon  affectation  by  illustrating 
the  uncertainty  of  life  in  another  way.  Cynthia  falls 
•dangerously  ill.  In  a  poem  of  prayer  and  pity  the 
familiar  legendary  names,  the  poet's  Greek  stock-in- 
trade,  lo,  Leucothea,  Andromeda,  Callisto,  Semele, 
defile  past  with  a  strange  and  helpless  effect.  But 
the  danger  grows  ;  the  last  efforts  of  witchcraft  are 
exhausted ;  the  lover  throws  away  his  learning  and 
breaks  into  the  simplicity  of  despair  : 

The  wheel  runs  slack,  the  spell  said  o'er; 

The  ashes  in  the  lembic  die ; 
The  moon  will  be  bewitched  no  more, 

I  hear  the  night-bird's  boding  cry. 

If  death  for  her,  then  death  for  me 

Must  set  his  sail  of  funeral  hue. 
I'll  be  with  her,  or  cease  to  be. 

Is  one  life  nought?     Yet  pity  two. 

Ah,  God !     If  you  would  save  my  sweet. 
The  hymn  that  I  would  make  for  you  ! 

And  she  should  sit  before  your  feet 
And  tell  you  all  her  peril  through^. 

Cynthia  recovers,  and  things  return  to  the  accus- 
tomed track.  The  hero,  if  such  he  can  now  be 
called,  cannot  sink  much  lower ;  but  lower  he  does 
sink  at  the  end  of  this  Part  (xxxii,  xxxiii),  where 
he  actually  endeavours  to  propitiate  his  tyrant  by 
artfully  defending  her  offences. 

^  The  magic  rhombus  was  not  a  "  wheel,"  as  Mr  Andrew  Lang 
has  discovered  for  us ;  but  we  cannot  well  call  it  a  "  bull-roarer." 


An  Old  Love  Story  43 

Scattered  in  this  division,  of  which  the  above  is 
the  merest  sketch,  runs  a  topic  which  takes  a  larger 
development  in  the  next.  With  the  revolt  of  the 
lover's  new  feelings  mixes  very  naturally  and  artisti- 
cally the  stirring  of  ^  new  literary  aspiration.  In  the 
address  which  opens  Part  II,  when  first  discussing 
the  proposals  of  Maecenas,  he  declined,  as  we  saw, 
the  task  of  national  poetry  as  beyond  his  strength. 
But  it  continues  to  suggest  itself  as  a  true  ideal,  and 
begins  to  take  the  shape  of  a  duty.  It  touches 
with  a  shade  of  remorse  even  the  commands  for 
his  funeral.  He  has  reasons  for  renouncing  so 
emphatically  the  last  honours  of  a  Roman  citizen. 

Nor  let  the  trumpet  wail  (what  use?)  for  me. 

He  recalls  himself  to  the  subject  sharply  a  little 
later  (x),  registers  a  promise  to  undertake  it  some 
day,  and  actually  addresses  to  the  emperor  a  few 
couplets  in  praise  of  his  triumphs,  excusing  himself 
from  attempting  more  at  present  with  a  graceful 
apology  : 

The  garland,  if  the  head  men  cannot  touch 
Of  some  tall  statue,  at  the  feet  they  lay; 

So  we  poor  poets,  when  the  theme  too  much 
Exceeds  us,  bring  such  incense  as  we  may. 

In  the  heat  of  the  moment  he  even  gets  so  far  as  to 
dismiss,  or  pretend  to  dismiss,  the  topic  of  Cynthia's 
praises  (xi).  His  temporary  farewell  to  it  is  a 
finished  miniature  : 

Praise  thee  who  list,  if  any  care,  and  sow 
His  laboured  verses  in  a  barren  ground. 


44  -^^  Old  Love  Story 

All  shall  be  buried  with  thee,  all  shall  go 
With  thee  into  the  low  forgotten  mound, 

Which  men  shall  pass,  nor  say,  beholding  it, 
"This  earth  was  once  a  woman  and  a  wit." 

But  the  tone  of  the  protest  belies  its  words. 
He  persists  in  the  old  manner,  and  even  declares 
(xxv)  that  he  shall  persist  in  it  to  the  end.  How- 
ever, in  the  closing  poem  of  Part  II,  which  upon  a 
slight  pretext  is  devoted  entirely  to  his  literary  hopes, 
other  views  are  again  distinctly  seen.  Returning 
to  the  thoughts  of  the  opening  poem,  he  praises  en- 
thusiastically the  rising  Aeneid,  and  while  he  takes 
Virgil  himself  to  witness  that  it  is  something  to 
have  attained  a  glory  in  the  parallel  of  the  Idylls, 
asserts  with  emphasis  the  superior  greatness  of  the 
national  theme  and  of  the  "glories  of  Actium."  It 
is  among  such  thoughts  that  Propertius  first  cites 
as  his  model  the  significant  name  of  Callimachus. 
Callimachus  of  Alexandria,  himself  an  elegiac  poet, 
was  famous  particularly  for  a  work  in  which  he  had 
turned  the  form  of  elegy  to  the  service  of  Greek 
legendary  history.  The  Roman  project  which  this 
connexion  suggests  is  henceforth  always  in  view 
till  we  lose  sight  of  Propertius,  and  with  an  appeal 
to  the  precedent  of  Callimachus  the  Third  Part 
opens. 

Before  we  dismiss  the  Second  we  must  notice 
that  Cynthia,  enlarged  into  three  successive  pictures, 
became  something  very  near  a  story,  and  as  such 
now  required  marks  of  time.  We  hear  now  first  of 
the  lapse  of  months,  then  of  the  lapse  of  years. 


An  Old  Love  Story  45 

Two  dates  are  furnished,  each  denoted  by  a  great 
imperial  event.  Near  the  end  of  the  Second  Part 
is  placed  the  dedication  of  the  new  Palatine  temple 
of  Apollo  (b.c.  28),  towards  the  end  of  the  Third  the 
death  of  the  emperor's  nephew  and  heir  Marcellus 
(b.c.  23).  The  former  poem  is  tacked  to  the  main 
subject  of  Cynthia,  and  is  in  no  sense  a  poem  for 
the  occasion  ;  indeed,  it  was  probably  written  long 
after.  It  is  brief,  and  (except  to  an  archaeologist) 
of  little  interest,  and  is  evidently  inserted  chiefly 
for  the  sake  of  marking  the  date.  The  latter  is  a 
quasi-official  elegy  and,  we  need  hardly  say,  does 
not  mention  Cynthia,  who  indeed  by  that  time  is 
relegated  to  a  colder  distance.  It  was  probably 
composed  at  the  time,  and  followed  before  long  by 
the  publication  of  the  whole  work. 

With  the  Third  Part  we  must  be  brief.  In  it 
are  wound  up  both  the  threads  of  the  previous  part, 
the  amorous  and  the  literary,  the  two  still  entangled 
as  before. 

In  the  degraded  condition  disclosed  at  the  end 
of  the  Second  Part,  in  the  condition  of  "slavery,"  a 
word  of  terrible  sound  to  a  Roman  ear,  the  narrator 
spent,  as  he  tells  us  in  the  last  poem  of  all,  five 
years.  The  limits,  as  already  seen,  are  roughly 
marked  by  the  two  dates,  28  and  23.  Of  the  rela- 
tions between  him  and  Cynthia  we  hear  directly 
very  little  more,  some  five  poems  only  out  of  twenty- 
five  being  given  to  it.  But  this  little  is  significant. 
Knowing  that  he  is  utterly  weary,  that  he  is  now 
bound  to  her,  however  securely,  only  by  inveterate 


46  An  Old  Love  Story 

habit,  the  woman  had  begun  to  make  him  scenes. 
One  such  occurs  in  the  Second  Part  (xx),  when 
he  represses  her  laments  with  a  peevish  tenderness. 
But  in  VIII  of  Part  III,  a  powerful  poem,  we  have 
the  further  stage,  when  love  itself  is  turned  into  a 
sort  of  malice,  and  the  lover  ruminates  with  bitter 
gusto  the  enjoyment  of  yesterday's  spectacle — 
Cynthia  in  the  paroxysms  of  a  jealous  fury.  In 
XV  the  storm  is  actually  raging.  But  if  these 
poems  present  with  force  the  last  phase  of  his 
miserable  pleasure,  the  others  (vi  and  xvi)  show 
with  humour,  not  less  artful,  the  abject  facility  with 
which  he  went  back  to  it.  In  vi  a  message  of 
reconciliation  from  Cynthia  (for  Cynthia  in  this  part 
for  the  first  time  has  to  summon)  is  brought  by  her 
slave,  Lygdamus,  a  name  to  be  linked  hereafter  with 
a  tragic  mystery.  The  lover  assumes  a  sceptic  air, 
and  solemnly  adjures  Lygdamus,  "as  he  hopes  for. 
freedom, '\  to  tell  him  the  truth.  But  instead  of 
waiting  for  an  answer,  he  shows  his  resolution  not 
to  be  deceived  by  a  series  of  leading  questions, 
which  put  into  the  messenger's  mouth  a  touching 
picture  of  Cynthia  sitting  sadly  at  her  modest  work, 
with  not  so  much  as  a  mirror  to  be  seen,  and  tear- 
fully complaining  to  Lygdamus  of  the  cruel  deserter. 
If  this  is  true,  let  Lygdamus  bear  from  him  at  once 
the  tenderest  reply,  and  "as  he  hopes  for  freedom" 
procure  an  instant  cessation  of  hostilities !  In  xvi 
he  makes  himself  utterly  ridiculous,  not  indeed  for 
the  first  time,  but  with  a  consciousness  of  his 
absurdity  which  is  ominous.     In  the  middle  of  the 


An   Old  Love  Story  47 

night  a  message  calls  him  from  Rome  to  Tibur,  a 
distance  of  near  twenty  miles.  He  goes,  but  full 
of  tremors,  which  he  vainly  endeavours  to  make 
pathetic.  What  if  he  should  be  murdered !  Will 
Cynthia  bring  garlands  to  his  grave  ?  He  is  obliged 
to  confess  that  this  much-abused  "grave"  is  likely 
to  receive  anything  but  respect  from  people  in 
general,  and  hopes  (oh  contemptible  "grave"!)  that 
at  any  rate  Cynthia  will  put  it  somewhere  out  of  the 
way !  From  this  time  he  sets  steadily  to  the  work 
of  his  deliverance. 

One  only  glimpse  of  anything  resembling  the 
old  happiness  this  Part  contains  (x)\  The  con- 
nexion, now  a  thing  of  years  and  habit,  has  become 
also  a  thing  of  anniversaries.  The  birthday  of 
Cynthia  will  afford,  hopes  the  lover,  at  least  a  day's 
respite  from  the  fatigue  of  her  tempers.  Long 
before,  when  this  fatigue  was  a  new  feeling,  he  had 
flatteringly  compared  her  eternal  complaints  to  the 
mourning  of  the  nightingale  and  the  tears  of  Niobe'. 
Now,  by  a  dexterous  allusion  to  this,  he  discreetly 
cloaks  his  request  for  a  brief  intermission.  The 
piece  is  exceedingly  celebrated  for  poetic  grace,  and 
dramatically  also  it  represents,  I  think,  the  author's 
highest  level.     One  might  spend  some  time  (if  the 

^  I  do  not  here  forget  in  20,  but  I  think  it  plain,  for  many 
reasons,  that  this  poem  is  not  addressed  to  Cynthia,  but  to  a 
person  utterly  different,  and  celebrates  the  marriage,  or  at  least 
the  "  honourable  addresses,"  of  the  narrator.  It  is  in  fact  a  step 
in  the  course  of  his  deliverance. 

2  II  20,  5—8. 


48  An  Old  Love  Story 

task  were  not  better  left  to  the  reader)  in  studying 
its  sharp  and  delicate  delineation. 

Surprised  I  saw,  while  yet  the  sun  was  red 

This  morn,  the  Muses  standing  by  my  bed. 

Three  times  their  joyful  hands  they  clapped,  to  greet, 

As  then  I  knew,  the  birthday  of  my  sweet. 

Oh  cloudless  let  it  pass,  the  winds  give  o'er. 

The  waves  break  gently  on  the  threatened  shore ! 

Far  from  my  sight  this  day  let  sorrow  keep. 

Not  marble  Niobe  be  seen  to  weep, 

The  halcyons  hush  their  plaint,  and  she,  whose  lay 

Mourns  for  lost  Itys,  mourn  him  not  to-day  I 

And  thou  whose  prospered  life  this  day  was  given, 

Arise,  and  pay  thy  grateful  dues  to  heaven; 

Wash  thee  from  sleep  with  water  pure,  and  fair 

With  moulding  fingers  set  thine  ordered  hair. 

The  robe  thou  hadst,  when  first  thou  didst  subdue 

Propertius'  eyes,  put  on,  a  garland  too : 

Then  pray  that  still  those  potent  charms  may  last. 

And  still  in  thy  subjection  hold  me  fast : 

The  altar  wreathe,  the  atoning  incense  light, 

Till  the  glad  flame  make  all  the  chamber  bright. 

Then  speed  the  time  till  eve :   prepare  the  board. 

The  wine,  the  sense-entrancing  perfume  poured : 

Tax  the  hoarse  pipe,  till  night  be  tired  with  dance; 

Free  be  thy  jest,  and  loosely  let  it  glance ; 

Banish  dull  sleep  with  riot ;   let  the  rout 

Fill  with  its  echoes  all  the  street  without. 

While  we  will  ask  the  dice,  as  others  do, 

What  hearts  Love's  leaden  wings  are  beating  through. 

Last,  when  the  cups  have  measured  many  an  hour, 

The  Priestess  shall  disclose  the  mystic  bower. 

With  annual  rite  the  feast  shall  duly  close, 

And  this  thy  birthday  finish  in  repose. 

Meanwhile  the  great  literary  project  grows   in 
firmness   and    fixes   in    outline.     (Fragments   of   it 


An  Old  Love  Story  49 

were  written  and  are  extant,  and  perhaps  it  was 
already  commenced  before  the  Cynthia  came  out.) 
We  are  told  distinctly  that  the  Cynthia  detains  the 
author  only  for  a  while  (11),  and  more  precisely 
that  with  encouragement  from  Maecenas,  whose 
admired  modesty  the  author  feels  constrained  to 
imitate,  he  will  certainly  enter  on  the  poetic  history 
of  Rome,  from  the  earliest  legends  of  Romulus  to 
the  overthrow  of  Antonius  at  Actium  by  Augustus 
himself  (ix).  The  next  and  decisive  step  is 
masterly.  Turning  from  the  birthday  picture  placed 
here,  the  poet  tries  to  palliate  his  servility  in  the 
eyes  of  some  censor  by  excuses  from  mythologic 
precedent.  And  indeed  he  can  plead  much  nearer 
precedent.  If  an  Antonius  could  be  slave  to  Cleo- 
patra— "may  not  I,"  he  was  going  to  say,  "be 
pardoned } "  But  the  name  of  Antonius,  so  lately 
mentioned  with  such  different  hopes,  lights  like  a 
spark  the  long  prepared  train  of  literary  and  personal 
motives.  His  apology  is  forgotten,  and  the  Roman 
poet  breaks  indignantly  into  that  very  "theme  of 
Actium  "  which  he  had  formerly  resigned  to  Virgil. 
This  piece  again,  familiar  as  an  extract,  surpasses 
itself  when  read  with  the  context : 

She  asked,  for  price  of  her  profaned  hand, 

Rome  and  Rome's  Senate  subject  and  enslaved ! 

Oh  guileful  Alexandria,  guilty  land ! 

Oh  Memphian  fields,  with  blood  of  Romans  laved ! 

Too  deep  upon  our  souls,  when  Pharos'  strand 
Despoiled  thrice-victor  Pompey,  was  it  graved. 

That  better  in  the  field  had  Pompey  died 

Or  'neath  the  heel  of  Caesar  laid  his  pride. 

V.  L.  E.  A 


50  An  Old  Love  Story 

And  dared  she  then,  Canopus'  harlot-queen, 
That  sperm  of  Macedon,  our  branded  shame, 

With  dog  Anubis  front  the  Thunderer's  mien, 
With  threats  of  Nile  the  Tiber  think  to  tame? 

With  rattles  chase  our  trumpets,  and  our  keen 
Swift  barques  with  galleons  of  Egyptian  frame? 

On  Rome's  high  rock  set  up  her  tented  seat, 

And  bid  the  Roman  eagles  to  her  feet? 

We  feel  that  the  Roman  CalHmachus  has  actually 
commenced  work,  and  that,  the  Cynthia  finished,  a 
Roman  "  Scenes  of  Story "  may  be  with  some 
confidence  expected. 

The  rest  of  the  poems  we  must  pass  lightly. 
Various  in  subject,  they  are  variously  and  some- 
times very  adroitly  shaped  to  the  purpose,  as  where 
an  elegy  on  a  death  at  sea,  after  blaming  much  the 
rashness  of  men's  enterprise,  concludes  with  this 
unexpected  turn : 

I  shall  not  brave  you,  winds.     I  cannot  choose 
But  lie  at  Cynthia's  steps,  sans  fame  or  use. 

All  is  now  ready  for  the  end  ;  and  after  experi- 
menting on  one  or  two  other  methods,  the  rebel 
recurs  after  all  to  the  very  expedient  recommended 
and  rejected  years  ago — a  voyage  to  Athens  and  to 
the  cities  of  the  East.  To  point  the  parallel  and 
round  the  whole  work,  Tullus,  the  original  author 
of  the  suggestion  (with  this  exception,  the  friends 
of  Part  I  disappear  in  the  continuation),  is  found 
resident  in  Asia  Minor,  and  the  poet  has  the  satis- 
faction of  lecturing  him  on  the  folly  of  preferring 
Asia  to  Italy,  which  he  lauds  in  language  thoroughly 


An  Old  Love  Story  51 

proper  to  the  official  school  of  poetry,  and  in  fact 
adapted  freely  from  a  memorable  passage  of  the 
Georgics, — Italy,  whose  honourable  history  is  so 
much  more  respectable  than  wild  Greek  romance, 
"  Italy,  Tullus,  your  natural  home,  to  which  you 
ought  at  once  to  return  and  get  married ! "  Thus 
Propertius,  and  we  feel  that  he  is  changed  indeed. 

A  Roman  story  could  scarcely  conclude  without 
a  symbolic  portent,  and  here  the  love-poet  loses 
his  professional  tablets.  As  for  Cynthia,  nothing 
remains  but  to  dismiss  her,  with  costs,  if  possible : 

Trust  woman,  trust  the  charms  no  more 

Which  cheated  once  my  humble  eyes. 

Love  lent,  I  see,  the  poor  disguise : 
I  blush  to  read  my  verses  o'er. 
Love,  Cynthia,  gave  each  heavenly  grace. 

And  showed  me  things  that  never  were, 

And  could  to  rosy  morn  compare 
The  brilliance  of  a  painted  face. 
My  fond  disease  no  medicine  moved; 

Kind  seniors  sermoned  me  in  vain. 

I  would  to  sea.     Alas  !  how  fain 
I  own  the  perils  I  have  proved. 

Love's  cruel  dungeon  have  I  tried, 

The  stake,  the  cauldron,  and  the  chain. 

Yet  have  I  'scaped  that  Afric  main, 
And  see  in  port  my  vessel  ride. 
My  wounds  begin  to  close,  my  wits 

Return;   and  I  myself  consign, 

By  Jove  neglected,  to  the  shrine. 
If  such  there  be,  where  Reason  sits. 

This  may  be  all  very  well,  but  we  could  now 
wish  that  the  ransomed  captive  had  stopped  here, 

4—2 


52  An  Old  Love  Story 

and  not  thought  it  necessary  to  hold  up  to  Cynthia 
the  probable  miseries  of  her  future.  However,  such 
a  close  is  truly  Roman  and  perhaps,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  not  untrue.  If  there  were  any  obstinate  lovers 
of  "  Greek  romance  "  who  were  inclined  to  murmur, 
they  were  destined  to  receive  an  ample  satisfaction. 
Besides  the  Cynthia,  Propertius  left  a  small 
number  of  poems  and  fragments,  now  subjoined  as 
"Book  IV."  This  numbering,  though  convenient 
for  reference,  is  misleading  and  not  a  little  absurd  ; 
for  the  collection  is  not  a  "  Book  "  at  all,  still  less  a 
part  of  Cynthia.  Indeed,  the  "arrangement"  of  it, 
if  the  word  applies,  is  so  careless  that  it  can  scarcely 
be  attributed  to  the  author^  One  piece  is  evidently 
the  opening  of  that  poetic  history  the  projection  of 
which  has  been  traced  above,  and  for  the  same  work 
most  of  the  others  seem  to  have  been  intended. 
Three  or  four  refer  to  the  facts  (or  fictions)  of 
Cynthia.  Like  the  rest  of  the  posthumous  collection 
they  are  disconnected  and  without  order.  They  are 
all  distinguished  from  Cynthia  by  a  very  different 
style,  and  an  examination  of  them  shows  that  (with 
perhaps  one  exception)^  none  could  have  found  a 
proper  place  in  it.  But  there  is  one  most  remark- 
able poem  (not  that  just  excepted),  which  is  in  a 

^  Dr  Postgate  rightly  insists  upon  this. 

^  IV  8,  which  might  possibly  have  stood  in  Part  in,  though 
it  is  very  different  in  style.  Like  the  other  posthumous  poems, 
it  shows  a  great  multiplication  of  dramatis  personae  and  scenic 
details.  The  absence  of  these  is  the  characteristic  of  the  Cynthia^ 
the  defect  indeed,  as  the  author  would  seem  to  have  thought. 


An  Old  Love  Story  53 

certain  sense  a  sequel  to  Cynthia,  and  cannot  be 
omitted  from  the  briefest  notice  of  it.  It  is  plain 
that,  whatever  additions  Cynthia  might  have  re- 
ceived within,  if  the  story  were  to  proceed  at  all, 
one  only  further  stage  had  a  chance  of  interest. 
The  deserted  woman  might  die ;  and  Propertius 
determined  to  kill  her.  Her  ghost  revisits  the  lover. 
The  scene  has  a  sort  of  realistic  romance  quite 
startling  in  Latin,  and  shows,  I  think,  that  had 
Propertius  lived  or  worked  longer,  he  might  have 
changed  considerably  the  course  of  literature.  It  is 
night.  It  is  a  very  short  time  after  Cynthia's  death. 
The  poet  has  heard  of  it,  and  has  been  somewhat, 
not  very  deeply,  affected.  From  the  conclusion  of 
Cynthia  it  would  be  inferred  that  after  the  dismissal 
the  lover  interested  himself  in  his  former  mistress 
no  more.  The  present  poem  starts  from  the  same 
assumption.  He  has  heard  of  her  funeral,  but  was 
not  there,  and  indeed  he  does  not  know  (for  he  has 
to  be  told)  where  she  is  buried.  Of  her  recent  life 
we  must  suppose  him  absolutely  ignorant.  His 
mind  is  wandering  in  a  selfish  regret  for  his  departed 
youth,  when — but  I  will  try  to  give  in  his  own  form 
the  manner  of  the  waking  : 

There  is  a  life  beyond  the  grave.     A  shade, 
A  pallid  wraith  escapes  the  conquering  flame. 

/  have  seen  Cynthia.     She  was  lately  laid 

Beneath  the  whispering  wayside  :   yet  she  came. 

(It  may  be  well  to  remind  the  reader  that  Roman 
graves  were  made  by  the  roads  as  a  regular  practice, 
and  that  the  words  here  mean  no  more  than  "she  is 


54  An  Old  Love  Story 

buried, '  though  they  have  doubtless  a  very  different 
poetic  effect.) 

To  me,  who  drowsed  upon  a  funeral  thought 

Of  love  dethroned,  came  Cynthia  from  the  grave; 

Her  hair,  her  eyes  as  from  the  bier  she  brought. 
But  on  her  flesh  the  charred  vesture  clave. 

The  gem  (I  knew  it)  of  her  ring  betrayed 
The  fire;   her  blank  lips  had  a  Lethe  look. 

She  sighed  and  spoke,  as  though  with  breath,  but  made 
A  bony  rattle  as  her  hand  she  shook : 

"  False  that  thou  art  and  false  must  ever  be 
To  woman,  canst  thou  sleep?     So  quick  forgot 

The  things  that  once  were  done  'twixt  thee  and  me. 
And  all  the  tender  past  as  though  'twas  not ! " 

She  adds  a  few  vivid  touches  of  reminder,  and  then 
she  tells  him  that  she  died  without  a  friend,  without 
anyone  who  cared  to  use  the  strange  (but  then 
accredited  and  common)  means  to  detain  a  little 
the  parting  soul.  The  call  of  a  beloved  voice  was 
supposed  to  have  some  power;  his  would  have 
given  her  one  more  day.  She  died,  and  he  knew 
it ;  yet  he  paid  not  the  slightest  tribute  to  her 
memory : 

"Who  at  my  burial  saw  thy  sunken  head, 

Thy  warm  tears  falling  on  thy  garb  of  woe? 
Thou  couldst  not  (if  no  further  to  be  led) 
Bid  to  the  gate  my  bier  more  slowly  go ! " 

He  sent  no  precious  spices,  no  inexpensive  flowers. 
And  hereupon,  as  if  to  put  beyond  question  that  she 
died  not  only  quite  friendless,  but  also  (for  a  reason 
which  she  leaves  him  to  guess)  quite  weary  of  life, 


An  Old  Love  Story  55 

she  suddenly  discloses  these  horrid  facts.  She  was 
poisoned  by  two  of  her  slaves,  male  and  female ;  she 
let  herself  be  poisoned ;  and  the  murderers,  married 
together,  are,  without  question,  enjoying  her  property, 
holding  in  subjection  the  rest  of  her  household,  and 
stifling  her  memory  by  horrible  cruelties. 

Let  Lygdamus  be  tried  with  fire  and  brand 
(I  knew  the  wine's  fell  colour  when  I  took), 

Let  guilty  Nomas  wash  her  guarded  hand 
And,  if  her  soul  be  clear,  the  ordeal  brook. 

She,  she,  the  refuse  of  the  public  walk, 
Now  trails  in  dust  a  golden  train  of  state, 

And  if  a  handmaid  of  my  beauty  talk, 
With  double  task-work  silences  her  prate. 

For  garlanding  my  grave  old  Petale, 

Fond,  faithful  wretch,  was  loaded  with  the  stocks; 
For  begging  in  my  name  was  Lalage 

Scourged,  while  she  hanged  upon  her  twisted  locks. 

The  murderess,  in  her  brutal  rapacity,  actually 
stole  the  gilt  statuette  from  the  dead,  and  has  melted 
it  down,  as  an  addition  to  her  "  marriage  portion." 
Yet  Cynthia  is  not  come  to  reproach  Propertius 
(she  acknowledges  her  debt  to  his  genius),  but  only 
to  assure  him  that  she  is  faithful  to  his  memory. 
She  offers  a  proof,  which  the  poet  by  his  own 
practice  might  certainly  be  estopped  from  disputing : 
she  has  gone  to  the  company  of  the  good  women  of 
legend,  and  in  the  consoling  converse  of  Elysium 
gives  a  report  (alas !  partial)  of  Propertius  to  such 
admired  wives  as  Andromeda  and  Hypermnestra. 
She  requests  him  lastly  to  take  under  his  protection 


56  An  Old  Love  Story 

two  specially  dear  to  her,  and  to  render  a  small 
service  to  her  grave : 

If  thou  art  touched,  if  Chloris,  she  whose  spell 
Can  hold  thee  now,  permit  a  thought  of  me — 

My  nurse  is  palsied;   and  she  used  thee  well; 
Let  her  not  starve,  my  old  Parthenie ! 

And  ah !  my  darling  "  Maid "  (the  name  was  fit ; 

She  held  a  mirror  to  me),  let  her  be 
Maid  to  no  other !     And  thy  verses  writ 

On  Cynthia,  burn  them ;   keep  no  "  praise  "  of  me ! 

This,  however  little  we  may  care  for  Andromeda 
and  Hypermnestra,  we  shall  hardly  deny  to  be  real 
pathos.  It  is  but  too  easy  to  comprehend  the  wish 
that  Cynthia's  child  (for  there  can  be  only  one 
meaning  in  the  explanation  added  to  the  name) 
should,  if  possible,  never  read  Cynthia. 

So  tight  with  ivy  cords  my  grave  is  bound, 
My  bones  are  aching :   let  me  lie  at  ease. 

In  the  white  clime  of  Tibur  is  the  mound, 
Where  brooding  Anio  feeds  the  orchard  trees. 

Set  me  a  pillar  there,  with  praises  just 
And  brief,  that  posting  travellers  may  see, 

"Here  lieth  golden  Cynthia,  one  whose  dust 
Adds  something,  Anio,  to  the  praise  of  thee." 

Of  the  "  ivy  "  I  have  seen  no  explanation,  and  should 
gladly  find  one.  That  it  is  not  supposed  to  have 
grown  on  the  grave  is  evident.  The  circumstances 
make  this  manifestly  inconceivable.  I  imagine  that 
the  cords  are  used,  as  hazel  and  other  wood  is 
sometimes  used  now,  to  hold  together  the  new 
heap ;  and  I  strongly  suspect  that  the  tightness  of 


An  Old  Love  Story  57 

the  binding  is  connected  with  the  murder,  and  was 
a  superstitious  device  for  holding  down  the  ghost. 
"Soon,"  she  tells  him,  at  the  last  moment,  "soon 
I,  and  no  woman  else,  shall  have  thee,  keep  thee, 
press  thee,  mix  with  thee  bone  in  bone\"  The 
prophecy  would  seem  to  have  been  before  very  long 
so  far  advanced  towards  fulfilment  that  Propertius 
died.  At  least  this  is  the  simplest  way  of  explaining 
the  state  of  the  later  collection,  and  the  fact  that  of 
his  magnum  opus  there  is  nothing  but  a  few  cut 
stones.  These  fragments  indeed  are,  many  of 
them,  of  rare  beauty.  Perhaps  I  may  return  to 
them  another  time,  and  even  say  something  more 
(I  should  like  to  say  much  more)  of  Cynthia.  It  is 
not  at  all  the  book  to  be  easily  exhausted  by  selec- 
tions. Enough  if  I  may  have  revived  some  reader's 
former  pleasure,  or  possibly  even  directed  one  to  a 
source  of  pleasure  untried. 

^  [The  poem  is  iv  7]. 


THE    FEAST   OF   SATURN 

Should  we  like  to  see  sixty  thousand  people 
immensely  happy  ?  Could  we  resolve  to  do  it 
without  scolding  or  grudging  ?  Could  we  rise  to 
this,  even  if  the  president  of  the  feast  were  to  be 
a  traditional  villain  of  the  children's  story-books — 
one  of  those  upon  whom  satire  and  tragedy,  dabbing 
away  in  alternate  streaks  of  black  and  white,  happen 
to  have  put  such  a  tarry  smear  as  history  will  never 
get  off?  Even  if  the  scene  of  the  feast  were  a 
building  raised  with  more  blessings  and  ruined  with 
more  curses  than  any  pile  of  stone  in  Europe  ?  If 
so,  let  us  have  the  pleasure  of  the  spectacle.  Let 
us  go  back  just  eighteen  centuries.  Let  us  suppose 
ourselves  the  subjects  of  that  generous  and  popular 
prince  (no  irony)  the  Emperor  Domitian.  We  are 
resident  in  the  capital.  It  is  the  middle  of  De- 
cember. Let  us  go  to  the  Coliseum,  some  fifteen 
years  old,  shining  white  in  the  sun  ;  let  us  forget 
(for  to  make  this  Roman  holiday  no  one  shall  be 
butchered),  let  us  forget  for  once  to  be  inviting 
the  Goths  to  glut  their  ire  (at  the  cost  of  what 
little  means  of  happiness  the  civilized  races  have 
painfully  scraped  together),   and   let  us,  under  the 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  59 

guidance  of  the  poets  Statius  and   Martial,  attend 
a  revival  of  the  Great  Saturnalia. 

We  must  first  use  our  minds  a  little  to  the 
surrounding  atmosphere,  political,  popular,  and  lite- 
rary. We  must  dissociate  all  the  objects  round  us 
from  the  thoughts  which  long  habit  has  attached 
to  them.  We  must  teach  ourselves  the  socialistic 
principles  of  the  Roman  populace,  the  true  prin- 
ciples, as  they  held,  of  the  Roman  state,  vindicated 
against  the  rapacious  oligarchy  by  the  revolution 
which  founded  the  Empire,  vindicated  again  against 
a  line  of  Caesars,  false  to  the  democracy  through 
which  they  rose,  by  the  revolution  which  threw 
down  the  tyrant  Nero.  Through  the  work  of 
Vespasian  and  his  sons,  particularly  under  the 
brilliant  reign  of  the  young  Domitian,  "  the  Roman 
people  "  seemed  to  themselves  to  be  entering  again 
into  their  own.  The  magnificent  buildings,  most 
of  them  destined  to  popular  use,  with  which  the 
Flavian  princes  covered  the  city,  were  regarded 
by  the  citizens  of  the  capital,  through  whose  eyes 
we  are  proposing  to  look,  not  as  bribes  for  their 
support,  but  simply  as  repayment  to  them  of  that 
"  property  of  the  Roman  people  "  which  was  theirs, 
but  had  been  treacherously  seized  and  misspent  by 
the  degenerate  heirs  of  the  deified  Julius. 

Most  strongly,  as  was  natural,  did  this  feeling 
attach  to  the  buildings  and  the  festivals  erected 
and  celebrated  within  that  great  area  of  the  city 
which  Nero  had  occupied  with  his  monstrous 
palace  and  park,  within   the  site  of  the   infamous 


6o  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

"Golden  House."  In  the  midst  of  this  area,  as  a 
crowning  monument  of  popular  pleasure  substituted 
for  selfish  luxury,  lay  the  great  Flavian  amphitheatre, 
known  later,  and  by  us,  as  the  Coliseum. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  for  a  modern  to  appre- 
ciate the  sentiment  with  which  this  building  was 
regarded  at  the  time.  That  it  should  be  praised 
as  an  all-surpassing  "  wonder  of  the  world "  is 
intelligible.  We  can  tolerate  Martial  when  he 
writes  : 

Boast  no  more  your  builded   mountains,   Memphis !     Babylon, 

be  dumb  ! 
Delos,   hide   your   horn-built   altar ;    Ephesus,   your   conqueror's 

come.  * 

Mention  not  your  Mausoleum,  Caria,  hanging  in  the  sky. 
What  is  great?     The  rest  be  silent.     Says  the  Coliseum,  "I." 

But  this  is  nothing.  Martial  distinctly  speaks 
of  the  amphitheatre  (the  arena  of  the  lions !)  as  a 
"  sacred  "  edifice.  And  he  accompanies  the  word 
with  explanations  which,  for  the  moment,  we  must 
try  to  make  our  own.  It  was  the  strong  impression 
left  on  the  Roman  mind  by  the  gigantic  greed  of 
Nero  which  made  so  keen  the  sense  of  renovation 
for  the  world  when  his  grasp  was  unclosed  and  his 
prey  recovered.  Rome  seemed  at  one  and  the 
same  moment  both  to  be  given  back  to  herself 
and  also,  by  the  closer  union  with  the  distant 
provinces,  which  was  the  effect  of  the  improved 
Flavian  administration,  to  become  more  universal, 
more  worthy  of  her  great  enjoyments  and  splendid 
popular  pomp.     There  is  another  piece  of  Martial 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  6i 

which  compresses  into  a  few  lines  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  Flavian  age,  and  centres  it  upon  its  true 
centre,  the  amphitheatre.  He  supposes  himself  to 
stand  on  the  site  of  the  "  Golden  "  palace  near  the 
colossus  of  the  Sun,  and  to  be  surveying  the  chief 
buildings  of  Domitian  and  his  family. 

Where  midway  in  the  street  the  scaffold  climbs, 
Raising  nigh  heaven  yon  giant  crowned  with  rays. 

One  tyrant  house  devoured  in  other  times 
The  city  round,  and  spread  a  baleful  blaze. 

One  lake,  one  private  water,  yielded  room 
For  all  that  sacred  Circle.     Where  you  mark 

Yon  swiftly-building  Baths,  there  Nero's  doom 
Made  thousands  homeless  for  a  single  park. 

Last  to  the  place  of  yon  fair  Colonnade 

He  grasped,  still  craving. — Caesar,  thanks  to  thee, 

Rome  is  once  more  for  Romans.     Thou  hast  made 
The  enslaver's  pleasance  free  unto  the  free. 

It  was  impossible  that  in  any  time  which  pos- 
sessed a  poet  at  all,  or  the  capacity  for  poetic 
feeling,  this  union  of  the  world  should  fail  to 
kindle  the  imagination.  If  in  the  enumeration  of 
Gibbon  the  long  defile  of  races  obedient  to  the 
Caesars  makes  a  stately  and  impressive  show,  what 
must  have  been  the  effect  of  actually  seeing  the 
vast  unity,  typified  in  the  varied  crowd  of  the 
streets,  of  the  colonnades,  and,  above  all,  of  the 
amphitheatre  ?  Possibly  this  may  be  read  by  some 
who  were  present  at  the  opening  of  the  Great 
Exhibition  in  1851.  I  was  not  there  myself  (for 
good  reasons),  but  I  have  heard  it  said  by  men 
who  were,  and  who  are  well  entitled  to  speak  on 


62  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

such  a  matter,  that  it  was  the  most  "poetic"  ex- 
perience they  had  ever  known  or  could  easily 
conceive.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  find 
our  various  "Inventories"  and  " Colinderies "  in 
London  more  poetical  than  most  poetry,  and  have 
always  wondered  a  little  that  scarcely  anything  of 
the  picturesque  and  imperial  suggestiveness  to  be 
found  there,  and  in  modern  London  all  over  and 
at  all  times,  has  found  its  way  into  the  later 
Victorian  literature.  It  has  not  happened  to  suit 
the  genius  of  those  among  us  who  have  the  faculty 
of  expression.  We  have  not  for  this  purpose  found 
our  man.  Rome  did.  Among  the  crowd  in  the 
Coliseum  sat  Martial,  noting  and  translating,  in 
a  thousand  sharp  touches,  the  thoughts  presented 
by  the  successive  figures.  It  is  true  that  the  unity 
was  much  more  real  and  the  variety  of  surface 
much  more  striking  than  in  the  English  "  empire  " 
as  represented  in  our  capital.  Through  the  same 
passage  of  the  theatre  would  pass,  in  a  few  minutes, 
wild  horsemen  from  the  Steppes,  whose  looks  at 
least  seemed  to  authenticate  the  grossest  barbar- 
isms recorded  in  Herodotus ;  a  group  of  majestic 
Arabians,  excited  for  once  into  something  like 
haste ;  Germans  who  had  but  once  seen  the 
Rhine ;  Africans  who  had  possibly  drunk  the 
springs  of  the  Nile — all  more  or  less  subjects  of 
Rome,  all  entering  at  Caesar's  door,  and  sprinkled 
as  they  entered  with  his  cloud  of  saffron  perfume. 
Among  them  sometimes  would  be  a  mountaineer 
of  Thrace,  pale  and  pensive,  who,  seeing  the  press, 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  63 

takes  from  his  wallet  a  little  roll  of  parchment  and 
holds  it  tight  in  his  hand  as  he  goes.  Martial  might 
well  look  at  him  and  wonder.  He  is  an  ascetic,  a 
brother  of  the  Orphean  mystery.  He  and  his  like 
have  for  centuries  preached  and  practised  strange 
precepts  of  self-suppression  and  renunciation.  Their 
little  river  is  at  the  very  point  to  join  and  swell 
a  mighty  world-stream.  What  will  it  not  sweep 
away!  Him  and  all  did  Martial  note.  Here  is 
one  scrap  from  his  note-book. 

!  Is  there  a  race  so  rude, 

So  bare  of  art  and  nude, 
That  comes  not,  Caesar,  to  thy  glorious  show? 

See  yon  Sarmatian  !     Think  ! 

He  hath  bled  his  horse  for  drink  ! 
Yon^^Haemian  reads  his  Orpheus  'mid  the  snow. 
;  This  one,  it  may  be,  dips 

In  Nilus'  fount  his  lips. 
That  hears  the  breakers  of  the  encircling  Main. 

Arabia  comes,  not  last, 

Sabaea  hastens  fast, 
Cilicia  finds  her  saffron  here  again. 
I  See  the  Sygambrian  there. 

Known  by  his  knot  of  hair ; 
The  Aethiop,  knotted  too,  but  diversely. 

A  thousandfold  their  speech ; 

Yet  this  attuneth  each. 
They  hail  a  common  father,  Sire,  in  thee  ! 

In  a  city  and  age  presenting  such  rich  material 
for  the  imagination  in  the  walks  of  daily  life,  it  is 
not  strange  that  some  should  have  regarded  this 
material  as  exclusively  proper  for  literature,  and 
should  have  contrasted  with  it  contemptuously  what 


64  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

could  be  got  by  treating  over  and  over  again  the 
well-worn  topics  borrowed  from  Greece.  This  was 
the  choice :  for  to  the  faculty  of  invention  scarcely 
any  school  of  Roman  poetry  would  pretend,  cer- 
tainly none  of  those  which  divided  the  city  under 
Domitian.  The  difference  of  tendency  rose  to  the 
height  of  a  formal  controversy,  and  is  represented 
to  us  chiefly  by  the  names  of  Martial  and  Statius. 
But  into  this  controversy  we  must  not  now  enter 
very  far,  nor  shall  we  attempt  to  estimate  the  merits 
of  Statius'  work  on  the  traditional  Greek  lines,  his 
epic  upon  the  orthodox  epic  subject  of  Thebes. 
It  has  had  some  effect  at  various  times,  and  may 
have  again.  At  the  present  moment,  though  slightly 
alive  in  the  schools,  in  the  world  it  is  practically 
dead,  and  it  has  been  in  this  condition  for  a  great 
part  of  its  existence.  A  work  whose  whole  motive 
is  borrowed  from  times  in  which  the  writer  had 
only  a  fictitious  interest,  has  generally  something 
unhealthy  in  its  constitution.  There  are  plenty  of 
English  parallels  ready  to  hand.  Martial  had  no 
doubtful  opinion  on  the  subject.  He  held  that, 
under  the  Flavian  dynasty  at  all  events,  the  proper 
subject  for  Romans  was  Rome.  Despite  of  civili- 
ties, there  was  evidently  friction  between  Martial 
and  Statius  ;  and  the  matter  is  of  interest  to  us 
here  because  we  are  presently  to  have  before  us, 
from  the  gallery  of  Statius,  perhaps  the  largest 
picture  remaining  of  a  Flavian  festivity.  Now  this 
picture  is  evidently  a  challenge-piece.  It  is  the 
chief  of  Statius'  essays  in  the  manner  of  the  rival 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  65 

school,  and  probably  owes  some  energy  to  the 
writer's  eagerness  in  proving  that  he  too,  when 
he  chose,  could  touch  off  the  humours  of  the  town. 
A  glance,  therefore,  at  these  rivalries  is  a  proper 
prelude  to  the  subject.  Martial  offers  satire  in 
abundance  ;  of  which  here  is  a  specimen.  It  should 
be  remembered,  as  a  help  to  fixing  the  point,  that  the 
legends  of  Thebes  and  Argos,  typified  by  the  names 
of  Oedipus  and  Thyestes  respectively,  make  the 
whole  of  Statius'  Thebais,  and  that  Statius  was, 
beyond  comparison,  the  chief  writer  of  his  school. 

I  Thyestes  and  Oedipus,  folly  all  that  is ! 
I        Your  Scyllas,  Medeas,  what  good  do  they  do? 
'    What's  Hylas,  or  Parthenopaeus,  or  Attis? 
Endymion  sleeping,  what  says  he  to  you? 

The  pinions  of  Icarus  melted,  the  slighting 
I         Of  amorous  rivers  by  swains  they  pursue, — 
s    What  help  can  you  get  from  such  pure  waste  of  writing? 
;        Here's  verse  to  which  Life  may  write  under  '"Tis  true!" 

No  Centaurs,  no  Gorgons,  will  here  be  presented, 
'\       No  Harpies !     'Tis  man,  sir,  man  only  that  speaks. 
If  you  don't  like  your  portrait,  and  feel  discontented 
At  seeing  yourself,  sir — why,  go  to  the  Greeks ! 

A  sharp  cast  of  the  literary  javelin  this,  at  a 
time  when  the  favourite  poet  of  culture  had  ''fixed, 
O  Muse,  the  barrier  of  his  song  at  Oedipus T  It  is 
clear  that  to  turn  aside  these  and  other  like  missiles 
was  one  object  of  Statius  when,  imitating  osten- 
tatiously the  manner  of  Martial,  he  wrote  his  very 
interesting  piece  on  "  The  Saturnalian  Feast  of 
Domitian." 

V.  L.  E.  q 


66    "  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

Of  all  the  feasts  by  which,  as  it  was  held,  the 
"sovereign  people"  enjoyed  their  own,  the  most 
widely  popular,  the  most  typical,  was  the  feast  of 
the  Saturnalia,  held  in  mid- December,  and  lasting, 
in  the  time  of  Domitian,  five  days,  of  which  one 
was  principal.  The  connexion  of  the  feast  with 
Saturn — the  Italian  god  of  the  field,  honoured 
when  the  seed  was  sown,  that  in  due  time  he 
might  give  the  increase  symbolized  by  his  sickle — 
had  of  course  long  before  Flavian  times  become 
merely  nominal.  To  suit  the  facts  of  the  time  the 
Sowing  festival  of  Rome  must  have  then  been 
adapted  to  the  agriculture  of  Egypt,  Pontus,  and 
where  not  ?  But  the  old  winter-feast  of  the  farmers 
fell,  for  Rome  and  Italy,  at  a  time  of  year  very 
well  suited  to  public  merry-making.  It  is  other- 
wise with  us.  Our  Christmas,  closely  connected 
in  history  with  the  Saturnalia,  is  made  miserable, 
three  years  in  four,  by  the  weather,  and  for  united 
public  festivals  on  a  large  scale  it  is  quite  impos- 
sible. Our  real  Saturnalia  have  long  ago  migrated 
to  Easter,  and  from  Easter  tend  constantly  to  fix 
themselves  practically  in  our  brief  summer  and 
delightful  autumn.  But  at  Rome,  as  everyone 
knows,  there  is  a  really  enjoyable  Christmas  for 
the  general  public,  and  there  was  a  really  enjoy- 
able Saturnalia.  As  at  our  Christmas  so  at  the 
Saturnalia,  public  manners  required  of  everyone  to 
make  those  in  his  power  as  easy  and  comfortable 
as  might  be  during  the  five  days.  Particularly,  as 
with  ourselves,  this  remission  was  claimed  on  behalf 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  67 

of  the  poor  and  the  oppressed.  The  State  con- 
tributed to  the  general  rejoicing  a  relaxation,  which 
is  to  us  odd  enough  and  affords  a  lesson  to  the 
historic  imagination.  Of  gambling  the  business- 
like and  economical  Roman  felt  a  great  horror ;  and 
at  ordinary  times  both  law  and  public  sentiment  re- 
pressed all  games  of  chance  with  an  extravagant 
and  doubtless  self-defeating  severity.  But  both 
gave  way  to  the  imperative  desire  that  everyone 
in  his  own  fashion  should  be  happy  at  the  Satur- 
nalia, and  for  five  days  the  Roman  might  get  drunk 
(which  for  the  most  part  he  did  not  want  to  do) 
and  might  shake  the  dice-box  (which  he  wanted 
very  badly  indeed),  without  fear  of  interference 
from  the  aediles.  The  sentiment,  indeed,  of  the 
graver  sort  held  out  when  law  had  given  way.  It 
is  laughable,  a  fine  instance  of  the  local  humours 
of  Puritanism,  to  read  that  Augustus,  half  a  cen- 
tury earlier  than  our  Flavian  period,  and  when  the 
Roman  Empire,  the  "corrupt,"  the  "dissolute," 
etc.,  etc.,  was  already  established,  incurred  grave 
reproach  because  he,  being  the  guardian  of  public 
morals,  and  bound  to  set  a  good  example,  went  so 
far  in  Saturnalian  licence  as  to  join  in  a  round  game 
for  points  with  his  family!  Pro  pudor  inversique 
mores  ! 

To  the  Roman  mind,  therefore,  a  general  per- 
mission to  play  in  public  for  stakes  seemed  to  be 
the  seal  and  assurance  of  general  liberty,  and  the 
Feast  of  Saturn  is  seldom  mentioned  without  some 
allusion    to    this    characteristic    mark.      And    it    is 

5—2 


68  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

mentioned  often.  To  Martial  in  particular,  as  a 
caterer  for  amusement,  the  season  was  especially 
dear.  There  is  some  evidence  that  for  a  time  he 
published  regularly  at  the  Saturnalia — by  way  of 
Christmas  numbers  as  it  were — special  volumes  of 
light  verse  suited  to  the  holiday  reader.  He  is 
always  pleading  the  general  absolution  of  the  feast 
as  an  excuse  both  for  offences  against  the  moral 
taste,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  are  frequent,  and  for 
supposed  laxities  of  literary  workmanship,  which 
are  pretended  merely,  as  a  show  of  humility ;  for 
a  more  exact  artist  never  put  stylus  to  wax.  Very 
delicate  and  graceful  are  his  excuses  for  rudeness, 
and  very  various ;  this,  for  example,  where  he  in- 
geniously deduces  from  Saturn's  sickle,  once  used 
for  other  purposes,  a  suggestion  of  fleeting  life  and 
an  injunction  to  make  the  most  of  our  time  : 

When  the  greybeard  with  the  scythe 
Bids  the  dice  to  keep  us  blythe 

Days  five-fold : 
Merry  Mob-cap,  Madam  Rome, 
Poets  for  a  careless  tome 

Scarce  you'll  scold. 

Will  you  ?     No !  your  smile  replies. 
We  may  write  without  disguise. 

Care's  man's  curse ! 
Freedom !     Let  the  casual  thought. 
As  it  ought  not,  as  it  ought, 

Just  run  verse. 

I  have  myself  taken  here  a  certain  Saturnalian 
liberty  (as  perhaps  elsewhere)  in  the  rendering  of 
pileata  Roma ;  for  to  call  the  pileus,  properly  the 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  69 

cap  of  liberty,  a  mob-cap,  might  well  be  stigmatized 
by  the  severe  as  nothing  more  than  a  bad  pun. 
But  I  appeal  to  the  poet.  Martial,  if  any  one,  must 
listen  to  the  excuse  that  "Christmas  comes  but 
once  a  year."  We  will  quote  yet  two  more  of  his 
preludes  to  the  Saturnalia.  Nowhere  is  better  seen 
the  spirit  of  the  Hellenized  imperial  festival — com- 
mon, nay  gross,  humanity,  frank  and  unashamed, 
exposing  itself  in  forms  of  singular  severity,  the 
heritage  of  Greece,  and  leniently  rebuked  by  public 
conscience,  the  great  gift  of  Rome.  Here  is  a 
strange  little  piece.  The  tune  (if  I  could  catch  it) 
is  the  tune  of  Milton.  The  thought  is — well,  not 
exactly  Miltonic.  (It  will  be  seen  that  the  date  is 
after  Domitian,  but  that  does  not  matter.) 

Hence,  sullen  Frown,  stern  rustic  heritress 

Of  Cato  and  Fabricius,  come  not  nigh ! 
Go,  mask  of  Pride  and  mannered  Moralness, 

All  things  that  fall  from  us  in  darkness,  fly  ^ ! 

"  Hail,  Feast  of  Saturn  ! "    'Tis  a  happy  cry 
And  honest  (Nerva  giving  leave  and  cause). 

Grave  airs,  I  give  you  warning.     It  is  I. 
Leave  me ;  and  read  your  Digest  of  the  Laws. 

And  here  is  the  other  mood,  the  Roman  thought. 
Who  "Varro"  was,  whether  he  really  existed,  is  no 
matter.  He  serves  here  for  a  mere  type  of  the  mind 
to  which  the  holiday  is  an  offensive  interruption, 
and  its  harmless  game  of  forfeits  an  unpardonable 
expense    of   working    hours.      Impertinent    in    the 

^   Quidquid  et  in  tenebris  non  sumus,  ite  foras,  an  epigram,  in 
its  kind,  not  to  be  surpassed  in  Latin  or  otherwise. 


70  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

former  piece,  here  Martial  chooses  to  be  respectful. 
The  two  moods  please. 

Varro,  whom  Sophocles  had  not  disowned 

For  tragedy,  nor  Horace  for  the  lyre. 
Lay  work  aside  awhile ;  be  Farce  postponed, 

Trim  Elegy  her  hair  forget  to  tire. 
The  verse  I  send,  to  a  December  taste, 

May  pass,  when  smoke  and  folly  seem  the  rule : 
Regarded,  Varro,  simply  as  a  waste 

Of  time,  you  cannot  find  them  worse  than  pool. 

Freedom  then  for  those  who  would  enjoy,  com- 
pulsion almost,  if  need  be,  for  those  who  would  not, 
was  the  key-note  of  this  formidable  merry-making. 
But  the  general  good-will  signified  itself  in  one 
way,  which,  as  a  corruptio  optimi,  is  perhaps  the 
very  worst  nuisance  which  ancient  or  modern  man 
has  wilfully  invented — a  mutual  giving  of  presents. 
It  is  true  that  in  Rome,  as  among  ourselves,  a  cer- 
tain convention  was  found,  whereby  the  extreme  of 
tiresomeness  was  mitigated.  Tablets  and  napkins 
(both  doubtless  decorated  with  various  "designs") 
supplied  in  Flavian  Rome  the  place  of  Christmas 
cards ;  and  the  methods  of  lighting  in  use  per- 
mitted as  a  third  simple  usage  the  handing  about 
of  presentation-tapers.  It  was  thought  scarcely  fair 
to  send  tablet,  napkin,  or  taper  at  any  other  time. 
But,  as  may  be  supposed,  the  ingenuity  of  human 
beings  in  self-annoyance  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
balked  ;  and  all  sorts  of  other  objects,  as  well  as 
these  three,  continued  to  circulate  from  house  to 
house,  to  flow  in  with  absurd  abundance  upon  those 
who  were  worth  courting,  and  to  flow  out  (for  the 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  71 

Romans  managed  the  matter  after  their  fashion, 
plain  and  business-like),  to  flow  out  again  to  the 
class  from  which  they  came,  as  a  cheap  kind  of 
liberality,  everyone  knowing  the  whole  process,  and 
all  secretly  willing  to  get  as  much  or  give  as  little 
as  they  could.  Endless  are  the  varieties  of  humour 
which  this  pernicious  and  long-lived  custom  (for  it 
goes  on  merrily)  furnished  to  the  painter  of  Flavian 
society.  I  quote  one  or  two,  not  for  themselves, 
but  because,  in  order  to  appreciate  the  great  scene 
we  are  presently  to  see,  we  must  figure  to  our- 
selves first  the  Saturnalia  as  specially  the  season 
of  "presents  all  round."  Here  is  one  of  many 
variations  on  the  same  fertile  theme  of  the  disap- 
pointed giver.  Very  comic  when  written  down  in 
black-and-white  are  the  natural  reflections  of  the 
hunter  for  "presents"  who  has  missed  his  game, 
and  receives,  instead  of  repayment  with  interest, 
only  satirical  assurances  that  the  patron  would  have 
been  delighted  to  pass  on  any  little  thing  he  had 
received,  only  that,  his  supply  of  "  gifts "  having 
failed,  his  generosity  is  without  means.  It  is  the 
best  of  the  joke,  that  the  man  does  not  in  the  least 
feel  the  absurdity  of  his  anger : 

I  sent  you  a  trifle ;   and,  alack ! 
Ne'er  a  trifle  has  it  brought  me  back. 
Now  the  Feast  is  over.     Times  are  bad. 
Say  you.     Ne'er  a  present  have  you  had. 
Ne'er  a  client  brought  a  pot  of  pickle. 
Coif,  or  kerchief,  pennyweight  of  nickel? 
Ne'er  a  grumbler,  to  assist  his  suit. 
Backed  it  with  sardines  or  candied  fruit, 


72  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

Case  of  shrivelled  figs  or  olives  rotten? 

You're  so  sorry  I  should  seem  forgotten  ! 

Keep  this  cheap  benevolence  for  those  you 

Still  can  cheat — and  not  for  One  who  knows  You. 

Here  is  another  tragedy  of  the  same  type,  but 
less  deeply  moving.  A  gentleman,  to  whose  finances 
this  commerce  of  society  is  important,  has  failed  in 
his  speculation  upon  the  accustomed  bounty  of  a 
certain  lady,  and  ungallantly  promises  himself  to 
make  things  straight  next  first  of  March,  the  Ladies' 
Day  of  the  Roman  Year : 

Now  ushers  call  the  unwilling  lad 

From  nuts  and  marbles  back  to  school. 

The  gambler,  if  his  luck  be  bad. 

Chased  from  the  public,  drunk  and  sad, 
Tempts  the  police  again,  poor  fool ! 

The  Five  Days  gone !     Yet,  Galla,  you 

Have  sent  me  nothing.     Less  I  had 

Foreseen.     But  nothing,  Galla  !     Phew  ! 

Ah,  well !    December's  for  the  men. 

And  March  for  women.     Wait  till  then. 

How  shall  you  like  it,  Galla,  when 

You  get  your  nothing  back  again? 

But  though  the  presents  might  be  tiresome 
enough,  and  though  Martial,  as  his  business  is, 
may  gaily  turn  out  this  and  that  seam  on  the 
inner  side  of  the  popular  motley,  the  Saturnalia 
represented  feelings  real,  deep,  and  sacred.  Then, 
as  at  Christmas  now  with  us,  was  the  assembly  of 
the  family  for  the  prearranged  evening  of  festivity, 
doubtless  difficult  sometimes  to  make  "go,"  but  not 
to  be  sneered  out  of  the  grateful  memory  of  any 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  73 

people  who  know  the  meaning  of  **  family  "  and  of 
"home."  What  store  the  Romans  set  by  it  is  well 
seen  in  a  device  of  their  great  historian,  or  rather 
tragedian,  Tacitus,  apt  for  our  present  purpose  as 
if  it  was  made  for  us.  The  popular  brilliance  of 
the  Flavian  house  is  constantly  shown  to  us  against 
a  background  of  Neronian  horror.  It  was  seen 
so  by  contemporaries.  And  the  blackest  of  the 
Neronian  horrors  is  the  horror  of  murder — that 
chain  oi parricides  which  began  when  the  Emperor's 
rival,  cousin,  and  heir,  the  orphan  son  of  Claudius, 
was  taken  off  with  poison.  And  how  does  Tacitus 
think  best  to  make  us  feel  the  unkind  murder  of 
the  boy  Britannicus  ?  By  dating  the  inception  of  it 
from  the  family  feast  of  the  Saturnalia. 

At  the  supper  of  the  imperial  family,  Nero, 
Britannicus,  and  other  young  friends  were  met. 
The  dice,  the  dice  of  the  Saturnalia,  having  raised 
Nero  to  a  temporary  throne  as  "  king  of  the  for- 
feits," he  laid  upon  each  guest  his  playful  duty  to 
perform,  observing  nevertheless  the  respect  due  to 
each.  But  when  he  came  to  Britannicus  he  com- 
manded the  lad  to  sing,  thinking  that  he  could  not 
but  come  off  ill,  having  little  experience  in  gaiety, 
and  in  drinking  still  less.  However,  the  boy  put 
him  out  of  countenance,  for  he  came  forward, 
nothing  daunted,  and  sang  a  sad  enough  song, 
showing  how  he  who  sang  was  put  out  of  his 
own,  and  oppressed,  and  had  no  help.  Whereat 
the  company  were  much  moved  (and  ashamed,  we 
will  hope),  as  was  easily  seen,  for  the  wine  made 


74  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

them  free  of  their  looks  and  words.  But  the  poor 
wretch  paid  dearly  for  showing  his  spirit ;  for  the 
tyrant,  alarmed  and  angry,  resolved  to  be  rid  of 
him  without  delay.  And  so  it  was.  Such  had 
been  the  family  feast  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  and 
such  a  story  was  Tacitus  telling  about  the  time  of 
the  particular  festival  to  which  we  now  proceed. 

We  have  now  in  our  minds  the  chief  facts  and 
thoughts  which  Statius  supposes  us  to  bring  to 
the  reading  of  his  "  Great  Saturnalia."  We  are 
ready,  putting  ourselves  in  the  place  of  the  average 
Roman  at  the  time,  to  see  in  the  Emperor  not  a 
bloody  tyrant  and  persecutor  but  the  liberator  of 
the  people ;  in  the  Coliseum  not  a  torture-chamber 
for  martyrs  but  the  revered  monument  of  the  great 
liberator;  in  the  Saturnalia  not  a  soft  name  for  an 
orgy  of  beasts,  but  a  specially  humane  ordinance  of 
public  religion,  commanding  general  gladness,  wide 
benevolence,  and  summing  up,  like  its  successor  in 
modern  times,  the  charities  of  the  family  life.  We 
can  for  the  moment  persuade  ourselves  to  see  how 
appropriate  it  was  that  on  the  great  day  of  the  Five 
the  "common  father"  of  nations  should  gather  the 
people  to  a  common  table  in  the  great  amphitheatre 
and  scatter  to  them  his  indiscriminate  gifts.  We 
can  feel  why  on  such  an  occasion  the  poet  of  arti- 
ficial Hellenism  should  have  quitted  his  Parnassus. 
It  is  worth  while  to  make  the  effort  of  imagination, 
for  whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  verse,  very 
seldom  upon  earth  has  been  witnessed  a  scene  more 
splendid  than  Statius  has  to  describe,  seldom  one 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  75 

more  interesting  to  a  sympathetic  mind,  not  often 
one  more  pleasant  to  an  understanding  heart. 

Apollo,  Pallas,  let  me  play; 
Ye  strict  and  stern,  not  yours  the  day. 
Grave  Muses,  with  the  opening  year 
Return,  but  leave  us.     Now  and  here 
Assist  me,  Saturn,  fetter-free, 

And  gay  December,  deep  in  wine. 
Help,  wanton  Wit  and  grinning  Glee, 

To  picture  how  our  prince  benign 
Kept,  morn  to  evening,  long  and  late 
His  public  Saturnalian  state. 

The  hospitality  offered  by  this  giant  monarch 
to  his  colossal  court  was  nothing  less  than  to  feed 
and  amuse,  from  dawn  until  far  beyond  the  end  of 
the  winter's  day,  "the  people  of  Rome,"  that  is  to 
say  a  representative  gathering  selected  from  all 
ranks,  which  must  have  numbered  some  fifty  or 
sixty  thousand  at  the  very  least.  The  scene  of 
the  entertainment  was  the  amphitheatre,  to  which 
the  company  were  doubtless  admitted  as  usual  by 
distributed  tickets.  How  the  building  was  arranged 
for  the  particular  occasion  cannot  be  ascertained  in 
detail.  It  is  a  problem  of  the  antiquary  how  at 
ordinary  times  the  awnings  were  fixed  and  moved 
over  its  vast  internal  oval  of  (roughly)  500  feet  by 
400  feet.  But  we  shall  see  that  for  this  particular 
festival  the  lighting  of  the  building  after  dark  in  the 
manner  described  would  require  temporary  internal 
structures  on  an  extensive  scale,  useful  also  for  other 
purposes ;  nor  can  the  expense  of  such  structures, 
great  as  it  must  have  been,  have  told  for  much  in 


76  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

such  a  "Christmas  bill"  as  must  have  been  pre- 
sented to  Domitian  when  the  feast  was  over.  The 
assembling  and  placing  of  the  multitude  began  in 
early  morning,  and  must  itself  have  occupied  some 
hours.  Meanwhile  they  were  kept  in  good  humour 
by  the  scattering  of  confectionery,  itself  in  its  variety 
a  symbol  of  the  power  which  commanded  the  whole 
resources  of  the  world  from  far  east  of  the  Bosporus 
to  far  west  of  Gibraltar. 

The  day  broke  showery — such  a  pour 
Of  sweetmeats  ne'er  was  seen  before. 
Nuts!     All  the  nuts  that  Pontus  knows, 
All  kinds  that  Idumaea  grows; 
Fruits  of  Damascus,  grafts  of  price, 

Force-ripened  sweetness  of  the  cane 
From  Ebusus,  the  choice,  the  nice 

Of  East  and  West,  a  liberal  rain ; 
And  all  that's  baked  beneath  the  sun 
Of  comfit,  biscuit,  cake,  or  bun. 

Dates  fell  as  thick,  as  if  unseen 
Some  palm-tree  overhead  had  been." 
Not  Pleiads  shed  so  loose  a  shower. 
Nor  Hyads  in  their  wildest  hour. 
As  then  from  skies  unclouded  broke 

Upon  the  vast  theatric  throng. 
The  storms  of  Jove,  for  Roman  folk. 

May  waste  the  earth,  yet  do  no  wrong, 
While  such  peculiar  bounties  flow 
Provided  by  our  Jove  below. 

Amid  these  agreeable  preliminaries,  with  much 
crunching  and  munching,  doubtless  also  much  push- 
ing, squeezing,  and  "Where  are  you  a-shoving  to?" 
the  circle  was  filled,  the  arena  remaining  empty  for 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  'j'j 

a  future  use.  The  dinner  which  followed,  Statius 
expressly  tells  us,  was  the  same  for  all ;  we  are,  no 
doubt,  to  understand  that  the  various  ranks  were 
distinguished  as  usual  by  their  places,  and  the 
Emperor's  own  immediate  circle  seated  on  his 
private  platform.  The  uniformity  of  the  repast  is 
a  guarantee  that  it  was  good,  amazingly  good  for 
the  quantity.  Many  illustrious  senators  must  have 
been  cross  enough  at  having  to  come  there  at  all 
(for  they  hated  his  Majesty),  but  I  would  not  waste 
on  them  one  grain  of  sympathy.  The  Emperor 
could  not  have  served  them  with  anything  but 
decent  wine,  and  what  he  served  to  them  he 
served  to  all — not  a  bad  example  of  taste  in  a 
society  which  is  constantly  represented  as  the  type 
of  vulgarity. 

The  seats  are  full,  in  every  rank, 
From  floor  to  crown,  no  single  blank; 
When,  lo !  the  attendants  mount  the  tiers, 
And  twice  as  great  the  crowd  appears. 
Like  Ganymedes  for  gest  and  grace, 

The  Gates,  the  napkins  white  and  fine, 
The  viands  choice  for  all  they  place. 

And  freely  pour  the  mellowed  wine. 
Like  the  round  world,  this  princely  treat 
Like  that  is  vast,  like  that  complete. 

The  "Ganymedes"  we  are  to  figure  dressed  in 
respectable  white,  the  Roman  equivalent  for  the 
swallow-tail  and  shirt  front ;  the  company  in  all 
the  garments  worn  within  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth,  even  the  aristocracy  togaless,  for  the  toga  was 
a  bore  and  gladly  cast  aside,  so  that  the  discarding 


78  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

of  it  is  frequently  mentioned  as  an  assurance  of 
Saturnalian  freedom.  Where  was  Martial  ?  There, 
for  certain ;  perhaps  in  the  Emperor's  party,  en- 
joying himself  greatly,  and  making  endless  mental 
notes  of  figures,  costumes,  remarks — sighing,  per- 
haps, a  little  for  native  Spain  and  some  quiet  rustic 
pig-sticking,  and  an  evening  by  the  fire  telling  Celtic 
stories  under  the  mistletoe.  Well,  he  would  have 
it  all  soon.  Where  was  Statius  ?  In  the  imperial 
party,  for  certain,  from  his  complacent  manner  of 
assuring  the  public  at  large  that  they  were  equally 
well  off;  not  enjoying  himself,  I  suspect,  as  much 
as  Martial,  though  he  does  seem  on  this  day  to 
have  been  shaken  into  an  unusual  state  of  genuine 
excitement.  That  simile  of  the  world  is  very 
good ;  at  least,  it  stirs  me  strongly.  And  his  next 
is  better. 

Gigantic  Trade  of  modern  time, 
Feigned  plenty  of  the  golden  prime, 
All,  all  are  in  conception  less 
Than  this  concentred  bounteousness. 
Rome  at  one  feast !     Sex,  ages,  ranks 

Unclassed;  none  more,  none  less  than  freej 
And  last,  to  beggar  prayers  and  thanks. 

The  giver's  sacred  majesty; 
That  so  the  least  of  us  may  say, 
"I  with  the  Prince  have  dined  to-day." 

Not  sated  yet  with  new  delight, 
Taste  passes  sudden  into  sight — 

We  have  finished  our  victuals  and  wine,  we  in 
the  outer  rows  ;  a  good  deal  better  (as  the  poet 
elegantly  but  not  altogether  gracefully  reminds  us) 


The  Feast  of  Satu7^n  79 

than  most  of  us  get  every  day.  We  have  gone 
back  to  our  dates,  figs,  ratafias,  "cakes  of  Ameria 
squashy  in  the  middle,"  etc.,  of  which  in  the  hours 
of  waiting  we  collected  a  little  heap,  being  good 
at  catching.  We  ruminate  peacefully  upon  these 
joys;  till  suddenly  even  "cakes  of  Ameria"  no 
longer  keep  our  attention — 

For,  lo !   the  arena  fills.     A  horde, 
By  nature  soft,  and  for  the  sword 
Not  formed  or  fashioned,  here  forget 

To  fear  like  women,  and  display 
Their  Amazon  battalions,  set 

In  order  for  a  manly  fray. 
Hippolyta  could  scarce  have  sent 
Such  lasses  to  a  tournament. 

Now,  we  are  Romans ;  and  it  is  not  one  century 
yet  from  the  birth  of  Christ.  We  should  not  be 
horrified  if  these  trained  girls  fell  on  and  did  real 
execution  with  their  swords  and  javelins.  But  they 
are  not  going  to  do  anything  very  bloody.  From 
the  account  of  the  poet  it  is  clear  that  this  army 
of  women,  and  the  army  of  dwarfs  (amazing  proof 
of  organization,  when  we  come  to  think  of  it) 
which  enters  presently,  are  sham  armies,  and  that 
the  whole  contest  is  no  more  than  a  contest  pour 
rire — a  laughable  Saturnalian  parody  of  those  only 
too  real  encounters  which  this  gorgeous  circle  has 
seen.  It  is  an  elaborate  mockery  of  gladiators'  per- 
formance. They  act  all  the  incidents  of  battle,  and 
the  joke  of  the  thing  lies  in  the  incongruity  of  these 
soft  limbs  and  stunted  forms  with  the  horrors  and 
feats  which  they  recall  to  the  imagination.     Not  a 


8o  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

refined  pleasure,  but  for  this  time  not  brutal ;  and 
such  were  the  spectacles  of  Rome  more  often  than 
is  sometimes  supposed. 

These  challenge  next  a  tiny  sort, 
Whom  nature,  knotting  them  too  short, 
Finished  as  dwarfs.     Heroic  rage 
Urges  the  minions  to  engage. 
Great  is  the  show  of  little  strokes, 

Small  deaths,  and  miniature  despairs- 
Mars  laughs ;  his  grisly  partner  jokes ; 

While  wondering  at  such  pygmy  airs 
The  cranes  above  them  (see  the  sequel) 
Allow  the  pygmy  for  their  equal. 

Of  these  "wondering  cranes,"  who  seem  to 
have  prompted  Statius  with  a  learned  comparison, 
between  the  dwarfs  and  the  crane-fighting  Pygmies 
of  Homer,  the  poet  in  the  sequel  gives  an  expla- 
nation not  too  clear  for  our  modern  understandings, 
and  assuredly  not  made  much  clearer  by  the  modern 
expositors.  We  shall  come  to  it  in  a  moment,  and 
must  hasten  on  :  for  the  dinner,  the  dwarfs,  and  the 
Amazons  have  occupied  some  time,  and  already  the 
winter  light  is  fading. 

Now,  for  the  day  was  closing  in, 
'Twas  time  the  scramble  should  begin. 
"  The  scramble  ! "    At  the  exciting  call 
Enter  the  famous  beauties,  all 
Whose  charms  of  person  or  of  art 

Possess  the  stagey  the  rounded  forms 
Of  Lydia  here,  and  there  apart 

Lithe  limbs  of  Spain  with  timbrels;  swarms 
Of  Syrians,  coming  still  and  coming. 
Exclaiming,  clapping,  dancing,  drumming. 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  8i 

The  "  scramble "  was  exactly  what  the  name 
implies  to  our  ears — a  scattering  of  gifts  among 
a  crowd,  partly  for  the  benefit  of  the  receiver, 
partly  for  the  amusement  of  the  lookers-on.  But 
what  a  scene !  What  a  moment,  when  the  hollow 
ellipse  of  brilliant  and  varied  colours  was  filled  by 
a  centre  of  greater  brilliance,  variety,  and  beauty ! 
The  beauty  of  the  world,  literally  chosen,  gathered, 
and  collected !  For  mere  splendour,  for  popular 
splendour  (the  most  admirable  sort  and  the  most 
useful),  the  world  has  seen  nothing  like  it  before 
or  since. 

Complete  at  length  the  motley  rout, 
Supers  and  match-girls  not  left  out. 
All  on  a  sudden  from  the  sky 
Birds,  flocks  of  birds  unnumbered,  fly ! 
The  fowls  of  every  climate  known, 

From  sacred  Nile  to  freezing  Phasis, 
Blown  southward  from  the  frigid  zone, 

Blown  northward  from  the  warm  oasis, 
All  kinds  but  one — no  birds  of  prey, 
Lest  they  should  take  the  rest  away. 

These  birds,  whatever  they  may  have  been  to 
the  ladies,  are  a  very  considerable  surprise  to  us, 
and  a  puzzle  too.  The  commentators  are  nowhere, 
so  to  speak.  They  tell  us  that  these  birds  were 
only  tickets,  scattered  among  the  crowd,  each  repre- 
senting a  specimen  of  game  or  poultry,  and  entitling 
the  possessor,  on  application  at  some  place  indicated, 
to  the  actual  bird.  Such  a  method  was  certainly 
practised  in  these  amphitheatrical  scrambles — the 
bird,  as   Martial   puts   it,  preferring  the  hazard  of 

V.  L.  E.  6 


82  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

the  ticket  to  the  certainty  of  being  torn  in  pieces. 
But  it  is  simply  impossible  that  what  Statius  here 
describes  was  a  mere  scattering  of  tickets,  con- 
vertible into  chickens !  To  say  nothing  of  the 
absurd  irrelevance  of  his  imagery,  the  question  is 
clinched  and  settled,  so  far,  by  the  foregoing  refer- 
ence to  the  cranes.  The  cranes,  says  the  poet  in 
plain  terms,  plainer  even  than  my  version  shows, 
were  some  of  the  birds  which  descended  in  the 
scramble,  and  these  "cranes"  were  astonished  to 
see  the  exploits  of  the  pygmy  paladins  in  the  arena 
below.  And  yet  these  cranes  were  only  tickets  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  reader,  knowing  his  or  her 
Statius,  has  no  doubt  a  solution  of  the  puzzle.  But 
"  birds "  of  some  sort  these  birds  must  have  been, 
and  of  course  not  real,  or  many  a  lady  would  have 
been  slain  on  the  spot.  Privately  I  guess  them  to 
have  been  some  sort  of  toy-birds  made  of  rag,  tow, 
and  what  not,  suspended  above,  lowered  at  the 
proper  time  near  to  the  arena,  and  then  allowed 
to  flutter  down.  Nothing  would  make  a  better 
scramble  or  a  more  amusing.  To  each  would  be 
attached  the  Emperor's  gift,  that  is  either  the 
"ticket"  for  it  or,  much  more  likely,  the  gift  itself. 
Objects  highly  attractive  to  the  assembled  fair,  and 
quite  costly  enough  for  a  distribution  by  hundreds  and 
thousands,  could  be  easily  attached  to  a  toy-bird. 

Now  all  content  compare  their  gains; 
No  pocket  empty,  none  complains. 
Then  all  at  once  the  myriad  throats 
Join  in  one  shout  their  countless  notes. 


The  Feast  of  Saturn  83 

"  Hail  to  the  Prince,"  their  sound  proclaims, 
"And  Feast  of  Saturn,  princely-free ! 

Hail  to  his  name,  to  all  his  names, 

Our  Prince — our  Master  ! "    "  Nay,"  said  he. 

And  put  the  flattering  phrase  away, 

"  What  else  ye  will ;  but  master — nay  !  " 

It  is  hard  that,  in  spite  of  this,  Domitian — who 
has  fared  worse  for  less  reason  than  almost  any- 
character  in  history,  and  who  is  frequently  abused 
from  pulpits  and  otherwise  by  people  who  hardly 
care  to  know  whether  he  was  or  was  not  the  same 
as  Diocletian — that  Domitian  should  be  scolded  for 
the  servility  of  address  which  he  permitted.  He 
was  a  hard  master  to  the  Roman  nobility,  who 
perhaps  wanted  one ;  but  he  was  a  real  king  and 
not  a  fool.  After  this  last  interchange  of  compli- 
ments between  him  and  his  company,  he  had 
doubtless  had  quite  enough  of  the  proceedings  and 
withdrew,  we  may  presume,  by  his  private  passage 
to  a  well-earned  evening  without  any  round  game, 
the  grandees  generally  following  suit.  Nor  is  it 
likely  that  the  fastidious  Statins,  though  the  fun 
was  but  just  beginning,  saw  very  much  more  of 
it.  The  arena  was  lighted  up  (how,  it  is  hard  to 
learn  from  the  raptures  of  the  bard),  and  a  sort  of 
Bartholomew  Fair,  with  shows,  stages,  and  drinking- 
bars  free,  seems  to  have  gone  on  there  ad  libitum. 
Hours  afterwards  Statius  declares  himself  too  sleepy 
with  the  Emperor's  wine  to  tell  any  more.  He  had 
more  probably  worked  himself  out  over  a  first  draft 
of  his  poem  ;  which  if  the  reader  does  not  allow  to 

6—2 


84  The  Feast  of  Saturn 

have  some  real  fire  and  flavour  in  it,  let  the  fault 
be  mine  and  not  the  Roman's ;  for  in  the  original 
I  find  a  great  glow  of  pleasure  and  glory.  And 
thankful  to  remember,  in  this  air  of  mud  and  smoke, 
that  ever  a  multitude  was  so  bright,  so  happy,  so 
splendid  as  were  these  sixty  thousand  Romans  in 
the  year  Ninety-blank  Anno  Domini^  I  would  con- 
duct the  poet,  in  Roman  fashion,  most  respectfully 
to  his  bed  : — 

Scarce  night  begins  to  mount  the  sphere, 
When — see  a  sun  of  flames  appear ! 
Brighter  than  Ariadne's  crown, 
Through  gathering  shades  it  settles  down 
In  mid  arena.     Heaven  is  thick 

With  fires,  and  darkness  banished  quite. 
Dull  sleep  and  sloth  fled,  strangely  quick. 

To  other  cities  at  the  sight, 
Perceiving  that  this  sun  portended 
A  feast  not  easy  to  be  ended. 

But  how  describe  the  enormous  jest 

Of  shows  and  farces  and  the  rest? 

The  suppers  heaped,  the  streams  of  drink — 

I  cannot  sing,  I  cannot  think. 

Spare,  generous  Prince,  and  let  me  sleep  \ 

The  memory  of  this  wondrous  day — 
Not  while  thy  Rome  and  river  keep 

Their  places,  shall  it  pass  away; 
Not  till,  new  given  to  man  by  thee, 
Yon  Capitol  shall  cease  to  be ! 


J 


v|C-*^^-'^^ 


A  TRAGI-COMEDY  AND  A   PAGE 
OF    HISTORY 

A  SATIRIST  in  search  of  an  example  by  which  to 
show  the  invincible  repugnance  of  individual  tastes 
in  matters  of  art,  and  the  consequent  futility  of 
critical  discussion,  could  scarcely  desire  a  better 
case  for  the  paradox  than  the  estimate  of  the  poet 
Euripides.  From  his  own  time  to  the  present 
day  it  has  been  the  fate  of  his  works  to  raise  a 
strange  and  complicated  discord  of  opinions.  He 
was  scarcely  cold  in  his  grave  when  Aristophanes 
hastened  to  set  up  the  jousts  for  a  tournament  of 
letters,  and  devoted  the  most  brilliant  of  his  national 
dramas  to  a  question  such  as  never  perhaps  before, 
and  seldom  since,  has  been  so  pompously  debated 
— whether  the  dead  poet  had  or  had  not  a  right 
to  his  accredited  place  as  a  master  supreme  in  his 
kind. 

And  where  the  question  is  left  by  Aristophanes 
in  the  Frogs,  there  in  effect,  and  in  spite  of  all 
changes,  it  now  remains.  That  vast  popularity  and 
influence  which  the  comedy  presumes  to  exist,  have 
never  been  withdrawn,  nor  ever  ceased  to  provoke 
from  time  to  time  the  same  sort  of  scornful  rage 


86     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

which  they  provoked  in  the  comedian.  By  the  side 
of  Aeschylus  and  Sophocles  he  was  compelled  to 
place  Euripides,  and  Euripides  only ;  and  yet  he 
would  gladly  have  converted  the  throne  to  a  pillory. 
So  now,  in  a  list  of  the  world's  greatest  poets,  the 
ducal  rank  of  the  literary  baronage,  no  one  could 
omit  the  name  of  Euripides  without  being  conscious 
of  the  gap.  And  yet  in  a  general  history  of  Attic 
drama,  it  is  possible  for  a  scholar  to  bestow  on 
Euripides  a  chapter  of  venomous  depreciation,  and 
to  back  it  with  respected  names\  Among  the  living 
poets  of  England  one  has  eloquently  defended  the 
unity  of  the  great  tragic  triad,  while  another  has 
declared,  with  something  more  than  his  habitual 
emphasis,  the  impossibility  that  anyone  worth  at- 
tention should  ever  put  Euripides  in  the  same  class 
with  the  other  two. 

Such  a  disagreement  of  doctors  might  well  stop 
our  mouths,  if  in  these  few  remarks  we  were  aiming 
at  any  decision.  But  the  very  disagreement  is  a 
temptation  to  ask  the  cause  of  it,  and  why,  when 
most  writers  who  have  made  a  venture  for  the  first 
rank  have  been  speedily  fixed  to  their  places,  within 
or  without,  by  something  like  a  general  consent, 
Euripides  alone  (for  I  believe  he  has  no  parallel) 
should  be  crowned  indeed,  but  with  such  an  uneasy 
and  disputed  crown.  The  fact  I  take  to  be  that 
Euripides  wrote  at  a  moment  in  the  history  of 
literature  not  merely,  like  all  moments  in  history, 

^  See  the  criticism  of  Schlegel,  as  reproduced  and  endorsed 
by  Donaldson  in  his  Theatre  of  the  Greeks. 


A    Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     ^j 

unique,  but  egregiously  and  inimitably  unique.  He 
swam  in  the  swirl  of  two  strong  currents,  which, 
taking  their  rise  in  the  mind  of  the  same  inventor, 
flowing,  clashing,  and  mixing  diversely  ever  since, 
threw  up  around  Euripides  the  spray  of  their  most 
bewildering  conflict. 

When  Aeschylus,  in  the  phrase  of  Aristophanes, 
**  first  reared  the  pomp  of  tragic  style,"  a  date  which 
may  be  put  about  level  with  Euripides'  birth,  his 
work  had  two  effects,  one  of  which  he  planned  and 
consciously  accomplished,  while  the  other  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  design,  nor  in  its  full  consequences 
even  comprehend.  He  perfected  the  sublime  and 
he  made  realism  inevitable.  As  for  sublimity,  it 
is  the  essence  of  him.  For  the  type  of  his  art, 
antiquity  rightly  chose  the  stately  and  unfamiliar 
costume  by  which  he  strove  to  raise  his  personages 
literally  above  and  out  of  the  common  level.  He 
had  the  faculty  of  greatness,  in  theme,  style,  words, 
everything.  It  belonged  in  part  to  his  age ;  his 
contemporary  Pindar  has  it  more  perhaps  than  any 
other  except  himself.  But  Aeschylus  has  it  most, 
and  for  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  elevation  there  is 
none  like  him.  To  sustain  this  height  he  made 
(we  have  express,  though  perhaps  needless,  testi- 
mony that  he  was  the  first  maker)  an  extraordinary 
diction ;  he  borrowed  and  adapted  a  peculiar  lyrical 
music  ;  he  chose  and  developed  all  that  was  morally 
grandest  in  the  grotesque  abundance  of  myth  and 
legend  ready  to  his  hand.  Now  in  all  this  there 
is    nothing    exclusively  proper   to    the    stage ;    and 


88     A   Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

though  Aeschylus  was  assuredly  one  of  the  very 
greatest  of  theatrical  artists,  though  his  actual  work 
is  essentially  theatrical,  it  is  nevertheless  not  in  its 
theatrical  quality  that  his  genius  as  a  poet  consists. 
Of  which  the  best  proof  is  that  in  later  literature 
the  most  Aeschylean  poetry  is  to  be  found  not  in 
dramas  at  all.  Milton  is  much  more  Aeschylean 
than  Shakespeare,  and  not  in  scenes  quasi-dramatic 
merely,  but  in  his  ordinary  narrative. 

Nor  is  this  so  merely  because  Milton  knew 
Aeschylus  profoundly,  and  Shakespeare,  we  may 
say,  not  at  all ;  for  Dante,  who  knew  not  a  line 
of  him,  is  often  Aeschylean  nevertheless.  It  is 
easily  conceivable  that,  under  other  circumstances, 
Aeschylus  might  have  applied  his  unequalled  power 
of  elevation  to  poetry  not  dramatic  in  form,  and 
had  he  done  so,  he  would  have  been  Aeschylus  still. 
But  without  his  sublimity  of  manner  there  would 
have  been  no  Aeschylus,  not  if  he  had  kept  ever 
so  strictly  to  the  form  of  dialogue  and  always 
written  for  the  purpose  of  recitation  from  a  stage. 
Indeed  the  mere  spectacular  form  of  tragedy,  so  far 
as  it  was  ever  invented  at  all,  was  invented  rather 
by  Athens  than  by  Aeschylus,  and  was  certain  to 
arise,  as  it  did,  whenever  there  should  first  exist  a 
large  free  population  desiring  and  able  to  command 
the  luxuries  of  the  mind. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  vital  matter,  that  the 
strong  new  spirit  of  Aeschylus  went  to  raise  and 
to  popularise  the  new  form  of  serious  drama.  For 
this  form  was  an  instrument  not  likely,  once  made. 


A   Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     89 

to  lie  idle  for  want  of  hands.  Through  action  and 
speech,  as  combined  in  conversation,  we  learn  the 
greater  part  of  what  we  know  about  each  other. 
It  was  therefore  a  prodigious  step  in  the  art  of 
showing  man  to  men,  when  poets  took  up  seriously 
the  composing  of  dialogues  to  be  recited  with  ac- 
tion. But  Aeschylus,  though  he  took  the  initial 
and  decisive  step,  went  but  a  little  way  himself; 
and  could  he  have  foreseen  where  the  way  led  and 
where  others  soon  would  go,  he  would  have  been 
but  little  disposed  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his 
lead.  In  the  latest  and  most  developed  of  his  works 
there  is  scarcely  a  sign  that  the  poet  feels  in  his 
grasp  a  new  tool  for  carving  the  likeness  of  common 
humanity.  His  dialogue  is  but  little  applied  to 
exhibit  the  play  of  thought  and  emotion  as  only 
dialogue  can  show  it.  The  spectacular  possibilities 
of  the  drama  he  grasped  completely,  but  its  possible 
subtlety  he  did  not  comprehend  or  care  for.  It 
was  indeed  alien  from  his  mind.  To  preserve  that 
noble  air  of  grandeur  requires  a  treatment  broad  not 
subtle.  You  cannot  be,  at  least  no  one  ever  has 
been  yet,  gigantic  in  outline  and  minutely  human 
in  detail.  However  ingeniously  the  two  qualities 
may  be  combined,  something  of  the  one  must  be 
sacrificed  to  the  other. 

But  the  step  was  taken  and  was  not  to  be 
taken  back.  The  realistic  analysis  of  character  is 
a  pleasure  too  keen  to  be  tasted  and  not  to  provoke 
appetite.  In  the  drama  of  Sophocles  it  assumes 
such  new  proportions  as  to  be  really  a  new  thing. 


90     A    Tragi-Co7nedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

The  working  of  a  virtuous  mind  under  temptation, 
as  it  is  shown  in  the  Philoctetes,  and  could  not  have 
been  shown  without  the  aid  of  the  dramatic  form, 
offers  a  kind  of  intellectual  pleasure  fertile  ever 
since  in  literature,  but  no  more  to  be  found  in 
Aeschylus  than  it  is  in  Homer.  Our  present 
space  and  purpose  will  not  allow  us  to  dwell  upon 
Sophocles,  or  to  consider  the  skill  with  which  he 
contrived  to  hold  in  combination  for  a  time  the 
discordant  elements  that  were  combating  for  the 
stage  of  tragedy.  But  this  we  have  to  remember, 
that  for  the  conciliation  which  he  effected  there 
was  a  price  to  pay.  The  process  of  permeating 
tragedy  with  the  spirit  of  realistic  analysis,  without 
destroying  that  elevation  given  to  it  by  Aeschylus, 
was  a  process  of  limited  possibility.  This  is  re- 
cognised explicitly  in  the  contrasted  criticism  of 
Sophocles  and  Euripides,  which  is  attributed  to 
Sophocles  himself;  that  Sophocles  represented 
humanity  according  to  the  requirements  of  art, 
while  his  successor  painted  it  as  it  is.  But  what 
if  men  should  care  for  the  reality  more  than  for 
the  requirements  of  the  Aeschylean  art  ?  Or,  to 
put  the  question  more  fairly,  what  if  they  insisted  on 
having  all  kinds  of  intellectual  pleasure,  a  realistic 
drama  as  well  as  the  elevated  and  remote  }  Even 
Sophocles  is  held  to  have  succeeded  least  in  those 
of  his  plays  (such  as  the  Philoctetes  and  the  Women 
of  Trachis)  where  the  new  element  has  most  part. 
Who  should  forbid  it  then  to  declare  itself  altogether 
independent  ? 


A   Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     91 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Euripides 
came.  Everything  was  ripe  for  a  tragedy,  or 
comedy,  or  tragi-comedy  of  manners  ;  and  if  there 
might  be  a  question  what  it  should  be  called, 
Athens  was  not  likely  to  wait,  any  more  than  we 
need  delay  ourselves  now,  for  a  mere  scholastic 
question  of  classification.  Such  a  tragi-comedy 
Euripides  did  in  truth  create,  and  if  he  could  have 
started  it  frankly  in  what  would  now  seem  the 
obvious  way,  half  the  pother  which  has  vexed  his 
renown  might  have  been  avoided.  The  drama  of 
Euripides,  if  we  look  at  the  essential  parts  of  it 
and  neglect  the  accidental,  is  concerned  wholly  with 
the  life  which  he  actually  saw  around  him.  And 
it  ought  in  the  nature  of  things  to  have  dealt 
nominally,  as  well  as  actually,  with  common  per- 
sonages and  ordinary  incidents.  Half  the  criticism 
of  Aristophanes  and  of  many  since  would  cease  to 
apply,  if  the  plays  were  furnished  with  a  new  set 
of  dramatis  personae,  fictitious  names  without  any 
traditional  association.  And  it  is  amazing  with 
what  facility  this  could  be  done,  how  slight  is  often 
the  connexion  between  a  play  of  Euripides  and  the 
old-world  legend  which  serves  for  the  scaffolding. 
With  the  change  of  a  few  verses  here  and  there, 
the  Medea  might  be  cut  loose  from  the  tale  of  the 
Argonauts,  with  which  it  has  in  truth  nothing  what- 
ever to  do.  The  life  of  it  comes  not  from  romance, 
but  from  the  homes  of  Athens.  Hippolytus  is  slain 
by  a  miraculous  monster ;  but  if  he  had  been  killed 
by  the  commonest  carriage-accident,  the  play  might 


92     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

still  be  much  what  it  is,  and  might  have  made  as 
deep  a  mark  in  literature  as  it  has.  The  names  of 
Theseus  and  Phaedra,  nay  even  the  very  human 
deities  of  Aphrodite  and  Artemis,  might  all  be 
exchanged  for  other  names  and  persons,  and  the 
drama  in  its  essence  would  still  be  there.  There 
is  not  a  single  play  of  Sophocles  which  could  be 
subjected  to  such  a  process  without  utter  dissolu- 
tion, and  as  to  Aeschylus,  the  very  thought  seems 
a  profanity.  The  legends  of  mythology  are  the 
very  warp  and  substance  of  their  compositions ; 
they  are  for  the  most  part  the  mere  frame  to 
those  of  Euripides,  and  a  frame  too  often  imper- 
fectly suited  to  the  texture. 

Why  the  tragi-comedy  of  Euripides  and  his 
contemporaries  did  not  (with  exceptions  too  few 
to  signify)  take  what  now  seems  the  plain  road, 
and  strike  into  independent  fiction,  is  probably  to 
be  explained  by  the  quasi-religious  character  of 
theatrical  performances  at  Athens.  Probably  neither 
the  authorities  who  licensed  and  financed  the  exhi- 
bition, nor  the  audience  themselves,  would  have 
tolerated  all  at  once  so  bold  an  innovation.  The 
fourth  century  might  have  witnessed  it ;  but  the 
fourth  century  produced  only  a  Menander  and  no 
Euripides.  Serious  thought  had  turned  elsewhere, 
and  the  great  age  of  Greek  poetry  was  over.  Nor 
has  the  true  lover  of  Euripides  any  reason  to  regret 
what  actually  was  done.  The  elements  of  the 
Euripidean  drama,  the  romantic  or  religious  legend 
which  is  taken  for  base  and  the  story  of  common 


A   Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     93 

life  which  is  built  upon  it,  stand  indeed  not  seldom 
in  the  sharpest  and,  it  may  be,  the  crudest  oppo- 
sition. But  this  very  contrast  gives  to  the  reality 
of  what  is  real  a  strange  and  fascinating  relief.  It 
is  often  as  if  the  figures  of  some  quaint  tapestry 
were  suddenly  to  walk  and  talk  from  the  canvas. 
Nor  is  there  the  least  doubt  that  the  poet  knew 
well  what  he  was  doing.  He  loves  to  startle  his 
reader  with  the  very  bareness  of  sheer  life  thrusting 
itself  upon  the  artificial  scene.  High  art  has  never 
forgiven  him,  but  mankind  have  never  given  him 
up  and  never  will. 

I  propose  for  our  present  amusement,  and  on 
the  chance  that  others  may  turn  to  use  an  expe- 
rience of  many  years  in  the  great  poet's  peculiar 
ways,  to  illustrate  what  has  been  said  by  a  brief 
review  of  his  Andromache.  This  play  is  classified, 
with  all  his  works,  as  a  tragedy,  and  some  are  pleased 
to  call  it  a  second-rate  tragedy.  No  Euripidean  is 
concerned  with  this  nomenclature  nor  bound  to 
defend  the  play  as  a  tragedy  at  all.  1 1  is  no  tragedy. 
The  only  tragic  incident  lies  outside  of  the  main 
action,  and  merely  serves  the  poet  for  a  piece  of 
brilliant  narrative.  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth  we 
might  have  called  it  a  comedy ;  now  we  have  no 
word  for  it  at  all.  But  call  it  what  we  please,  it  is 
an  admirable  piece  of  work,  full  of  reality,  and  in 
the  central  scene  subtle  and  yet  simple  in  the  play 
of  character  after  a  fashion  which  Euripides  has  to 
himself. 

Interested  above  all  things  in  the  complications 


94     ^    Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

of  domestic  life,  an  interest  stimulated  by  the  great 
social  and  material  improvements  of  his  century, 
Euripides  has  centred  the  Andromache  upon  a 
problem  such  as  our  modern  civilization  happily 
does  not  admit.  The  Greeks  were  in  one  sense 
monogamous :  that  is,  a  man  could  not  in  Athens 
be  married  to  more  than  one  legal  wife.  But,  as 
in  all  slave-owning  communities,  ambiguous  rela- 
tions, regular  though  not  matrimonial,  were  common. 
And  as  the  slave-women  of  Greece  were  often,  in  all 
respects  but  status,  fully  as  fit  to  be  the  wives  of 
their  masters  as  the  true-born  burgess-ladies  whom 
they  formally  wedded,  there  was  constant  tempta- 
tion to  risk  the  double  household,  to  "  marry "  one 
for  love  and  one  for  position.  This  situation,  with 
all  its  perils,  was  exciting  to  the  eye  of  the  poet  and 
of  the  philanthropist:  and  Euripides  was  both.  He 
sought  within  the  prescribed  circle  of  tradition  for 
an  opportunity  to  place  such  a  situation  by  a  little 
adapting  of  the  legendary  data,  and  he  found  it  in 
the  legends  of  the  house  of  Peleus. 

After  the  capture  of  Troy  the  captive  Andro- 
mache, formerly  the  wife  of  Hector,  was  assigned 
to  Neoptolemus,  son  of  Achilles  and  grandson  to 
Peleus  and  the  sea-goddess  Thetis,  by  whom  she 
became  the  mother  of  Molossus.  According  to  an- 
other story,  probably  in  origin  quite  distinct  from 
that  of  Andromache,  this  same  Neoptolemus  wedded 
Hermione,  daughter  of  Helen  and  Menelaus  of 
Sparta,  which  Hermione  was  nevertheless  bestowed 
as  wife  by  yet  another  independent  tradition  upon 


A   Ti'agi-Cofuedy  and  a  Page  of  History     95 

her  cousin  Orestes,  the  son  of  Agamemnon,  and 
hero  in  that  fearful  story  of  murder  and  revenge 
which  Aeschylus  has  made  generally  known.  Again, 
among  the  many  legends  told  by  the  priests  of 
Delphi  in  honour  of  Apollo,  it  was  related  that 
this  Neoptolemus,  having  attempted  to  plunder  the 
sacred  place,  was  slain  by  the  deity,  and  buried  at 
Delphi,  where  his  grave  was  shown.  Out  of  these 
materials  Euripides,  using  the  romantic  element 
after  his  habit  as  a  background,  and  adjusting  the 
social  facts,  if  we  may  term  them  so,  to  his  purpose, 
has  constructed  his  play  of  The  Rivals,  for  so  it 
might  have  been  appropriately  called  in  the  modern 
style.  In  the  house  of  Neoptolemus  Euripides 
establishes  both  Andromache  and  Hermione  side 
by  side — Hermione,  the  princess,  as  the  rightful 
wife,  Andromache,  the  slave,  though  princess  too, 
as  a  wife  in  everything  but  name,  first  in  the 
husband's  love,  and  superior  also  in  the  possession 
of  a  son.  He  gives  them  contrasted  characters — 
Andromache,  the  woman,  all  tenderness,  Hermione, 
the  girl,  all  pride  ;  Andromache  unable  not  to  cap- 
tivate the  captor  whose  dominion  she  abhors, 
Hermione  unable  to  condescend  even  where  she 
is  desperately  eager  to  please ;  and  lastly,  both 
women  all  through,  both  jealous  not  so  much  of 
love  as  of  place,  and  neither  able  to  forgo  the 
delights  of  a  triumph,  whatever  pang  may  be  paid 
for  it. 

Such  is  the  bed  which  Achilles'  son  has  made 
for   himself      Meanwhile    the    distractions   of    the 


96     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

household  are  observed  by  a  watchful  enemy. 
Taking  up  the  story  which  made  Hermione  wife 
to  Orestes,  the  dramatist  supposes  her  to  have 
been  promised  to  him,  but  given  nevertheless  to 
Neoptolemus  by  her  father  Menelaus,  a  weak  and 
crafty  man  (here  comes  out  the  Athenian  hatred  of 
Sparta),  when  Orestes  had  compromised  his  posi- 
tion by  that  unfortunate  matricide,  and  the  heir  of 
Achilles  was  the  most  desirable  ally  among  the 
Greek  youth.  Orestes,  false  and  crafty  as  Menelaus 
his  uncle,  but  strong  in  purpose,  waited  his  time, 
and  aided  by  the  self-willed  folly  of  Neoptolemus 
did  not  wait  in  vain.  Neoptolemus  had  pleased 
himself  by  taking  Hermione  in  spite  of  Orestes* 
better  right ;  he  had  pleased  himself  still  by  not 
putting  Andromache  from  the  home  to  which  he 
brought  the  princess ;  and  he  pleased  himself  once 
too  often  by  venting  against  Apollo  his  anger  for 
the  death  of  his  father  Achilles  and  going  so  far 
as  to  demand  satisfaction  of  the  deity.  Reminded 
of  his  weakness  by  the  ill  success  of  his  domestic 
plans,  he  repairs  to  Delphi  on  an  errand  of  apology. 
And  now  his  errors  come  home.  Hermione,  with 
the  support  of  Menelaus  whom  she  summons  from 
Sparta,  determines,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband,  to 
be  even  with  the  slave-rival  once  for  all.  Andromache 
flies  for  refuge  to  the  sanctuary  of  Thetis,  but  is 
tempted  to  leave  it  by  a  stratagem  of  Menelaus, 
who  discovers  the  hiding-place  of  Molossus  her 
son.  Menelaus  and  his  daughter  are  about  to  put 
both   mother   and    child   to   death,   when   they  are 


A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     97 

saved  by  the  spirited  interference  of  Peleus,  the 
boy's  great-grandfather,  before  whom  the  cowardly 
Spartan  finds  it  convenient  to  retire  "upon  a  sudden 
and  a  pressing  cause,"  leaving  Hermione  to  extricate 
herself  as  she  may. 

Then  follows  a  scene  of  exquisite  humour  and 
force.  The  princess,  like  the  spoiled  child  that  she 
is,  passes  in  a  moment  from  the  height  of  arrogance 
to  the  depth  of  terror.  She  tears  her  magnificent 
and  priceless  robes,  declares  that  her  husband  will 
kill  her,  that  she  will  never  meet  him  alive,  and 
struggles  with  contemptible  despair  in  the  arms  of 
the  attendants  who  soothe  her  and  scold  her  like 
a  rebel  of  the  nursery.  Here  arrives  Orestes,  who 
has  surveyed  if  not  guided  the  whole  working  of 
the  machinery  which  is  accomplishing  his  ends.  He 
arrives  pretending  to  know  nothing  of  the  situation. 
In  reality  his  cousin  has  never  ceased  to  correspond 
with  him,  and  though  he  has  politicly  stood  off  from 
her  appeals  while  there  was  no  fair  chance  of  suc- 
cess, he  has  been,  during  the  last  critical  days,  in 
the  very  neighbourhood  of  the  house,  and  presents 
himself  at  this  moment  ready  to  receive  her,  should 
she  throw  herself,  as  she  does,  into  his  arms.  For 
her  husband  he  has  already  provided  otherwise. 
Using  the  jealousy  of  the  Delphians  against  one 
under  suspicion  of  enmity  to  their  god,  he  has 
arranged  that  Neoptolemus  shall  be  assassinated 
(Apollo  conniving  and  aiding !)  in  the  sacred  pre- 
cinct itself.  So  ends  all,  not  more  unhappily  than 
things  are  apt  to  end  when  foolish  men  choose,  as 

V.  L.  E.  7 


98     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

they  will,  to  act  as  if  they  might  safely  defy  the 
feelings  and  beliefs  of  the  world  and  the  course 
of  nature.  Intelligent  selfishness  carries  the  day 
against  reckless  selfishness.  Orestes,  cold-hearted 
and  wary,  regains  his  native  rank  and  promised 
bride,  while  Neoptolemus,  gallant  in  a  sort  of 
blundering  fashion,  lies  in  his  grave  among  the 
Delphians,  to  the  "eternal  opprobrium,"  puts  in 
the  satirist,  of  their  cruel  and  revengeful  deity. 
And  the  moral  of  it  all,  if  the  moral  signifies,  is 
that  young  men  should  be  very  careful  how  and 
whom  they  marry !  This  maxim  Euripides,  mocking 
with  a  sympathetic  smile  the  romance  of  mythology, 
puts  twice  into  the  mouth  of  Peleus  and  illustrates 
lastly  from  the  case  of  Peleus  himself,  who  having 
allied  himself  so  particularly  well  (with  a  goddess 
of  the  sea,  no  less)  is  rewarded  by  his  Thetis,  who 
appears  at  the  close  of  the  piece,  with  an  everlasting 
home  in  the  ocean-caves.  Thence  the  immortal 
pair  may  now  and  again  come  up  to  behold  their 
Achilles  enjoying  his  happy  days  upon  a  mystic 
island  far  in  the  Euxine  Main.  Andromache  is 
dismissed  finally  to  a  new  husband  of  her  own 
race,  and  left,  as  happy  as  she  may  be,  with  her 
boy  Molossus  in  Molossia. 

Hero  or  heroine  the  piece  has  none.  It  is 
proper  to  tragi-comedy,  which  is  the  antithesis  of 
tragedy  rather  than  a  species  of  it,  to  avoid  these 
elevations.  But  the  climax  is  the  success  of  Orestes, 
and  it  is  to  the  scene  between  him  and  Hermione 
that  the  drama  advances.     After  this  it  is  merely 


A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     99 

wound  up.  Let  us  put  ourselves  then  at  this  point  of 
view,  and  look  at  a  pair  of  scenes  with  Euripidean 
eyes.  The  first  important  moment  is  the  entrance  of 
Hermione.  Her  character  is  a  piece  of  the  crudest 
realism,  and  Euripides  prepares  for  it  in  his  fashion 
by  a  delicate  contrast  of  poetic  romance.  An  un- 
rivalled linguist,  he  had  every  style  at  command, 
and  the  beauty  of  this  passage  has  won  praise  from 
the  most  unwilling.  I  must  apologise,  indeed,  for 
the  attempt  to  reproduce  it. 

When  the  play  opens,  Andromache  is  found  in 
sanctuary.  A  slave,  once  hers,  now  level  with  her 
in  subjection,  brings  her  word  of  the  new  plot  laid 
by  Hermione  and  her  father  against  Molossus,  and 
is  sent,  the  last  of  many  messengers  and  the  only 
one  found  faithful,  to  summon  Peleus.  Left  alone, 
Andromache  is  bewailing  herself  in  tones  which 
echo  the  old,  old  music,  older  than  memory,  of 
Homer  and  the  poets  of  Ionia,  when  she  is  visited 
by  some  Thessalian  women  of  the  place,  led  by 
their  sympathy  to  steal,  as  they  hope,  a  moment 
when  the  jealous  vigilance  of  Hermione  is  averted, 
and  to  approach  the  sufferer  with  consolation  and 
advice.  Thus  singfs  to  herself  the  widow  worse 
than  married : 

Death  and  doom  it  was  he  wedded  when  in  Ilium's  royal  tower 

Paris  led  his  Helen  to  the  bower. 
Troy,  for  Helen  thou  art  wasted;  Troy,  for  Helen  swiftly  came 

Ships  a  thousand  fraught  with  sword  and  flame. 
Aye,  for  her  my  Hector  died  in  death  dishonoured,  dust-defiled 

'Neath  the  chariot-wheel  of  Thetis'  child. 

7—2 


lOO    A  Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

Me  they  took  from  Hector's  chamber,  haled  me  to  the  sounding 
shore, 

Veiled  in  slavish  weeds — a  queen  before. 
Tear  on  tear  I  wept  to  leave  you,  Hector,  with  the  dying  town, 

Dying,  Hector,  all  in  ashes  down. 
Woe  is  me,  what  profit  had  I  more  of  living?     I,  a  slave 

To  the  Spartan !     Better  were  a  grave 
Than  to  fly  before  a  tyrant  to  these  marble  arms  and  pour 

Fountain-tears,  until  I  waste  no  more ! 

Thus  she  sings,  and  thus  in  her  own  mood  and 
measure  answer  to  her  the  secret  visitors,  softly 
steaHng  in,  while  one  after  another  they  take  up 
the  burden  of  the  song : 

Lady,  listen,  where  thou  clingest  to  the  goddess  of  the  waves, 

Faithful  to  the  shrine  that  saves. 
Fear  us  not ;  though  thou  wast  bred  in  Asia,  though  in  Phthia  we. 

Yet  in  love  we  come  to  thee. 
Might  compassion 

Something  lighten  of  thy  misery ! 

And  here  other  voices  put  in  : 

Caged,  alas,  and  with  the  rival  cribbed,  as  in  a  narrow  room, 

Must  thou  battle 
'Gainst  the  bride,  poor  mistress,  for  her  groom? 

And  here  yet  others  again,  repeating  the  rhythms 
of  the  first : 

O  advise  thee,  O  consider  of  thy  helpless,  hopeless  case ! 

Wilt  dispute  a  royal  place? 
Troy  and  Lacedaemon,  slave  and  princess,  what  a  match  to  play ! 
Ah,  content  thee,  come  away ! 

Let  submission 
Win  thee  respite  while  it  may. 
Why  increase  the  certain  torture,  lengthen  out  the  appointed  pain? 
She  is  sovran. 
She  will  reach  thee;  tempt  her  not  in  vain. 


A  Tragi- Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     loi 

Then  others,  with  a  quicker  step  and  a  livelier 
urgency : 

Come,  descend,  forgo  thy  refuge,  quit  the  Nereid's  holy  fane ; 
See  what  thou  art  and  where, 

Nor  think  it  gain. 
Humble  and  friendless,  to  disdain 
The  proffer  of  a  little  care. 

Aye,  we  love  thee,  captive  lady,  pity  thee,  in  this  too  wise 
That  we  have  feared  to  speak. 

We  feared  surprise : 
Hermione  hath  jealous  eyes. 
And  queens  are  mighty,  subjects  weak. 

And  now  the  realist  has  laid  the  train  for  his 
effect.  At  this  very  moment,  breaking  harshly 
upon  the  spell  of  the  sustained  and  soothing  lyric, 
Hermione  herself,  who  has  watched  the  unsus- 
pecting women  upon  their  errand  of  mercy,  and 
enjoyed,  with  what  feelings  may  be  supposed,  the 
proverbial  reward  of  the  listener,  steps  out,  splendid 
in  person  and  apparel  but  mean  in  act  and  gesture, 
upon  the  astonished  circle,  and  addresses  them  in 
words  like  these  : 

If  I  am  pleased  to  bind  my  brows  with  gold, 
And  robe  myself  in  gorgeous  broideries. 
Not  Peleus  nor  Achilles  first  bestowed 
Upon  the  Spartan  bride  her  proper  state. 
My  father  dowered  me  with  the  royal  right, 
Purchased  and  richly  paid,  to  speak  my  mind. 
So,  you  are  answered,  ladies !     As  for  thee. 
Prisoner  and  slave  and — mistress,  thine  intent 
Is  to  expel  me,  to  usurp  my  place. 


I02     A    Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

Thou  with  thy  witchcraft,  thou,  hast  made  my  spouse 

MisHke  me,  cursed  my  womb  with  barrenness. 

Being,  like  all  your  passionate  Asian  breed. 

Adept  in  this  love-magic.     But  I  mean 

To  end  both  it  and  thee;  nor  sanctuary, 

Sea-nymph  or  shrine,  shall  rescue  thee  from  death. 

Or  let  thine  angel,  for  thy  one  last  hope, 

Bend  thee  to  quit  thy  greatness  and  thy  pride, 

And  crouch,  and  grovel,  and  fling  thee  at  my  feet. 

Sprinkle  my  floors  and  sweep  them  (I  will  find 

Thee  gilded  vessels  for  the  menial  task). 

And  learn  the  simple  truth  that  this  is  Greece ! 

Here  is  no  Hector  and  no  Priam.     Here 

We  practise  not  thy  shameless  savagery. 

To  woo  the  embrace  of  hands  that  have  on  them 

Thy  dearest  blood,  be  mother  of  a  child 

Whose  grandsire  slew  thy  husband !     But  your  East 

Is  all  for  such  abhorred  accouplements. 

No  cross  of  kin,  no  soul-dividing  feud 

Bars  like  from  like,  or  farthest  hate  from  hate. 

Bring  not  thy  fashions  here.     Foul  sin  it  is 

To  yoke  two  women  in  one  governance; 

He  that  would  'scape  a  miserable  home 

Let  him  content  his  amorous  heart  with  one. 

Detractors  might  say  what  else  they  would,  but 
could  not  deny  that  here  was  breathing,  staring  life. 
Neither  in  Aeschylus  certainly  nor  in  Sophocles  (let 
those  smile  who  will)  is  there  anything  like  it.  Even 
to  us,  on  whose  ears  the  comparison  of  Asia  and 
Hellas  must  needs  fall  as  something  foreign  and 
far-away,  and  who  must  use  our  imaginations  before 
the  household  of  Neoptolemus  can  rise  before  our 
minds  as  a  fact,  even  to  us  (I  speak  at  least  for 
myself)  this  formidable  girl  gives  a  startling  im- 
pression of  real  presence.     I  wish  there  were  time 


A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     103 

to  spend  over  the  rest  of  the  scene,  and  the  admir- 
ably contrasted  figure  of  Andromache,  sorrowful  and 
majestic,  yet  not  less  exasperating  than  Hermione 
herself,  pathetic  and  yet  dealing  wounds  with  every 
appeal : 

O  Youth  and  Self!     What  peril  is  in  youth, 
In  youth  that  nothing  loves  beyond  herself!... 
No  spell  of  mine  procures  thy  husband's  hate, 
But  thou  thyself,  wanting  one  wifely  charm, 
The  magic  of  companionableness. 

Hermione  however  has  in  her  hand  for  the  moment 
the  strong  card  of  force,  and  plays  it,  but  loses  the 
game,  as  we  have  seen,  by  the  collapse  of  her  pitiful 
partner,  King  Menelaus.  And  so  we  pass  to  the 
best  scene  of  the  play,  where  Orestes  reaps  the 
benefit  of  his  calculations  and  meets  the  dishevelled 
beauty  in  the  moment  of  attempted  flight,  sobbing 
helplessly  at  the  gate  in  the  arms  of  her  duenna. 
The  feigned  surprise  of  the  successful  plotter,  the 
vain  attempt  of  the  queen  to  perform  with  dignity 
the  part  of  throwing  herself  on  the  protection  of 
a  discarded  suitor  and  to  cover  the  shame  of  her 
unkingly  parent,  the  angry  explosion  of  her  repent- 
ance, which  positively  stops  for  a  time  the  offer 
which  is  ready  on  Orestes'  lips,  the  contempt  of 
her  Thessalian  subjects,  the  prudent  chivalry  of 
Orestes  himself,  who  is  not  too  much  in  love  to 
see  his  strength,  and  lastly  the  sudden  reassump- 
tion  of  the  lady's  dignity  when  she  sees  that  she 
is  sure  of  her  object — all  this  makes  an  episode 
which  tickles  the  fancy  at  every  turn. 


I04     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

Orestes.        Ladies,  inform  me,  of  your  courtesy, 

Is  this  the  palace  of  Achilles'  son? 
A  Lady.       Aye,  sir.     And  thou,  the  questioner,  who  art  thou  ? 
Or.  Orestes,  lady,  Agamemnon's  son 

And  Clytaemnestra's.     Being  in  pilgrimage 

Unto  Dodona  and  being  come  so  far 

As  Phthia,  I  have  thought  to  ascertain 

The  health  and  happiness  of  my  kinswoman, 

Hermione  of  Sparta,  dwelling  now 

Far  from  our  love,  but  not  forgotten — 
Hermione.  Saved ! 

A  haven,  a  haven  I     O  Orestes,  see — 

See  where  I  kneel,  and  answer  for  thyself 

Thy  loving  question  of  my  happiness. 

Thus  with  mine  arms  I  bind  me  to  thy  feet, 

And  clasp  mine  altar.     Pity  me ! 
Or.  Gracious  Powers ! 

Do  I  mistake,  or  do  I  see  indeed 

The  princess'  self? 
Herm.  Menelaus'  daughter,  sole 

Born  of  his  queen,  of  Helen :  doubt  it  not. 
Or.  Then  heaven  be  merciful  and  mend  thy  woes ! 

But  what,  but  what  ?    Come  they  from  heaven  at  all 

Or  fault  of  man? 
Herm.  By  fault  of  man,  of  him 

Who  is  my  lord,  and  yet  from  heaven,  from  all. 
Or.  Thou  hast  no  children,  and  thou  art  aggrieved ! 

Shrewdly  I  doubt  where  lies  the  jealous  grief? 
Herm.  Well  doubted;  there  it  lies. 

Or.  Thy  lord  hath  ta'en 

Some  other  to  his  bosom. 
Herm.  Her  who  being 

The  wife  of  Hector  fell  to  be  a  slave. 
Or.  It  is  a  wrong  indeed. 

Herm.  It  was  a  wrong  ! 

And  therefore  did  I  try  to  right  myself. 
Or.  By  woman's  vengeance  on  a  woman  ? 


A   Tragi'Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     105 

Herm.  Aye, 

On  her  and  on  her  bastard,  by  their  deaths: 
But— 

Or.  Reached  them  not?    Who  balked  thee  of  thy 

will? 

Herm.  Peleus  was  pleased  to  lend  his  gravity 

Unto  the  baser  cause. 

Or.  But  thou,  thou  hadst 

No  helper? 

Herm.  Aye,  my  father :  he  had  come 

Express  from  Sparta. 

Or.  But  was  overpowered 

By  the  old  grandsire,  was  he? 

Herm.  Over-awed 

He  was,  and  left  me,  left  me  here  behind. 

Or.  I  take  thee;  thou  art  fearful  of  thy  husband, 

Seeing  what  has  passed. 

Herm.  Thou  hast  read  my  fear  indeed. 

Why,  he  will  take  my  Ufe;    and  wherefore  not? 
Now,  for  the  dear  sake  of  our  cousinhood, 
Take  me  away;   farthest  from  here  is  best; 
Take  me  to  my  father's.     For  indeed  I  think 
The  very  palace  cries  me  to  be  gone. 
And  the  land  loathes  my  presence.     If  my  lord 
Return  from  Delphi  hither  ere  I  go, 
I  die  a  death  of  shame,  or  live  to  serve 
The  slave,  his  mistress,  that  I  ruled  before. 
"Why  was  I  such  a  fool?"     Because  of  fools 
That  had  free  access  to  me,  tongues  of  women, 
Prompting  me  still  with  fool  suggestions.    "  So ! 
You  have  the  patience  to  endure  a  slave. 
Free  of  the  house,  free  of  the  bed !     I'  faith. 
Madam,  let  me  say,  if  bed  and  house  were  mine, 
The  interceptress  soon  would  lack  her  eyes  ! " 
I  heard  the  siren  voices,  Hstened  to 
The  reckless  gossip,  learned  the  subtle  cant. 
And  swelled  with  sentiment. — What  need  had  I 


io6     A  Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

To  be  my  husband's  jailer?     Did  I  want? 
Had  I  not  wealth  in  plenty,  queenly  state, 
Children,  if  I  should  bear  them,  noble  lords 
Of  the  base  issue  from  the  rival  couch? 
Ah  never,  say  I,  never  I  say  again, 
Will  reasonable  men,  wedded  to  wives, 
Suffer  the  spouse  to  entertain  at  home 
Women !     The  women  it  is  who  teach  the  harm^ 
For  one  will  serve  temptation  for  a  bribe, 
And  one,  being  fallen,  to  bring  her  sister  down. 
And  more  for  wantonness.    Thus  house  from  house 
Takes  the  infection.     Therefore  lock  your  doors, 
Bolt  them,  and  bar  them  up,  and  set  a  watch 
To  keep  the  women  out,  whose  visiting 
Is  purely  profitless  and  mischievous ! 
A  Lady.       This  is  too  loose  a  libel  on  the  sex, 

In  thee  excusable,  though  woman's  part 
Is  more  to  gloss  the  frailties  of  her  kind. 
Or.  It  was  a  wise  advice  that  someone  gave 

To  be  a  listener  and  let  others  speak. — 
I  was  apprised  of  the  domestic  war 
Between  the  Trojan  rival  and  thyself, 
And  lay  in  truth  watching  the  chance.     Belike, 
Sooner  than  fray  it  out  thou  wouldst  retire, 
Quitting  possession  to  the  doughty  slave, 
And  though  I  came  without  a  call  to  come, 
Wouldst  license  me  (and  so  thou  hast)  to  offer 
My  convoy  hence.     Thou  wast  already  mine 
When  thy  false  father  wedded  thee  away. 
His  plighted  word,  before  the  siege  of  Troy, 
Gave  me  that  hand,  which  afterwards,  to  buy 
Thy  husband's  aid  therein,  he  pledged  to  him. 
To  Achilles'  heir.     I,  at  their  coming  home, 
Sparing  thy  father,  begged  the  son  preferred 
To  yield  thee,  pleading  my  unhappy  state 
And  how,  an  exile  and  for  such  a  cause, 
Failing  to  wed  the  daughter  of  my  kin. 


A  Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     107 

I  scarce  might  hope  to  win  a  wife  at  all. 

Whereon  he  scorned  me  for  a  matricide, 

Haunted  (what  fault  of  mine?)  by  bloody  fiends. 

I  bowed  my  head  (the  sorrows  of  my  house 

Had  humbled  me)  but  did  not  feel  the  less, 

Because  compelled,  the  losing  of  thy  hand. 

And  now  the  wheel  hath  turned,  now  thou  art  fallen 

Hapless  and  helpless,  I  will  be  thy  guide 

Hence  to  thy  sire  in  safety.     Cousinship 

Is  a  mysterious  bond,  and  at  a  need 

Where  should  one  lean  but  on  a  kinsman's  arm? 

Herm.  How  I  should  marry,  till  my  father  have 

Reflected  on  it,  lies  not  in  my  choice. 
Only  make  haste  for  our  departing,  lest 
My  lord  step  in  upon  me  ere  I  go. 
Or  Peleus  learn  that  I  am  fled  the  house 
And  charioted  pursue  us. 

Or.  Fear  him  not; 

He  is  old;  and  Neoptolemus,  fear  not  him. 
This  hand,  which  owes  him  for  his  insolence. 
Hath  knotted  him  a  sure  and  deadly  snare 
And  set  the  same — but  I  anticipate; 
Time  will  reveal  the  sequel,  in  the  doing, 
To  Delphi,  where,  unless  my  Delphian  friends 
Fail  to  perform  their  oaths,  "the  matricide" 
Will  read  my  lord  a  lesson  on  the  risk 
Of  wedding  my  betrothed.     He  shall  abide 
The  wrath  of  Phoebus,  whom  he  called  to  account 
For  slain  Achilles,  nor  shall  save  himself 
By  his  repentance  and  submission  now. 
The  god  will  be  his  death,  and  I,  his  foe. 
Have  laid  a  train  of  rumour  thereunto. 
Fate  in  a  quarrel  lets  the  advantage  poise 
Alternate,  for  the  chastisement  of  pride.       \Exeunt. 

Such    or   such-like    is    the   chief    scene    in    the 
Andromache    of    Euripides.      By    what    scholastic 


io8     A   Tragi-Coniedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

name  the  work  should  be  ticketed  is  not  a  pressing 
question.  But  if  it  is  not  admirable  work,  so  clever 
in  conception,  so  delicate  and  humorous  in  detail, 
if  it  is  not  first-rate  work,  then  by  all  means  let  us 
have  second-rate,  and  be  thankful.  Tragedy  is  good 
and  so  is  tragi-comedy.  There  remains,  I  think,  of 
Euripides,  but  one  single  work  (the  Bacchae)  which 
the  Muse  of  Tragedy  should  acknowledge  or  claim 
as  exclusively  her  own.  All  the  rest  have  been 
marred  or  mended  by  her  sisters  named  and  name- 
less, and  all  their  gifts  we  may  have  without  cavil 
or  contention.  Indeed  it  is  an  ill  use  of  eternal 
literature  to  dispute  over  it ;  and  therefore,  lest  the 
reader  should  disagree  after  all  with  my  estimate 
of  such  scenes  as  the  foregoing,  I  will  ask  leave  to 
try  once  more  with  a  piece  about  which  there  is, 
I  believe,  no  difference.  That  Euripides  could  tell 
a  story  with  spirit  is  granted  by  those  who  like  him 
least,  and  it  happens  that  the  Andromache  contains 
one  of  his  best,  the  death  of  Neoptolemus  at  Delphi, 
related  to  Peleus  by  one  of  the  servants  who  bring 
home  the  body.  The  narrator  witnessed  the  scene, 
but  was  prevented  with  his  companions  from  bearing 
a  hand  in  it  by  the  ritual  practices  of  the  place.  It 
will  be  seen  that  Neoptolemus  at  the  critical  moment 
was  divided  from  his  defenders,  as  the  enemy  fore- 
saw and  intended,  by  the  impassable  wall  of  the 
sacred  close.  From  the  high  ground  outside  they 
saw  what  was  done,  but  could  not  help.  The 
archaeological  interest  of  the  story,  enacted  upon 
one  of  the  most  famous  sites  in  the  world,  is  very 


A   Tragi'Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     109 

great ;  but  except  in  the  points  noticed  it  will 
sufficiently  explain  itself.  So  I  give  it  without 
more  preface. 

Arrived  at  Phoebus'  far-renowned  see, 

We  spent  the  golden  hours  of  three  full  days 

In  feasting  with  the  show  our  curious  eyes, 

And  stirring  (innocently)  suspicion  so. 

This  grew  and  gathered,  while  from  knot  to  knot 

Orestes  wandering  whispered  to  the  folk 

His  fell  suggestions :    "  See  him,  how  he  goes 

With  careful  survey  through  your  treasure-close 

Rich  with  the  whole  world's  wealth.    'Tis  the  old  grudge 

To  Phoebus  brings  him  here  this  second  time 

For  plunder."     So  he  whispered,  they  believed, 

Until  the  chartered  keepers  of  the  store. 

After  due  conferences  had  and  held. 

Set  private  watch  about  the  pillared  courts. 

At  length,  of  all  this  coil  unconscious,  we 
Took  victims,  petted  on  Parnassian  lawns, 
And  waited  at  the  high  gate  solemnly 
With  Delphians  to  present  us  and  direct. 
Then  said  the  questioner,  "Your  purpose,  sir? 
What  is  the  prayer  that  we  shall  make  for  you 
To  Phoebus?"    Said  my  lord,  "To  be  forgiven; 
To  make  amends  that  for  my  father  slain 
I  sinned  so  far  to  ask  amends  of  him." 

And  now  was  seen  to  what  malign  effect 
Orestes  had  possessed  them  with  the  fraud 
Of  our  ill  meaning.     When  my  lord  had  passed 
Within  the  boundary  to  address  his  prayer 
In  the  oracular  presence,  there  were  set 
Swordsmen  in  ambush,  covered  by  the  bays, 
With  the  arch-plotter,  Clytaemnestra's  son. 
And  while  my  lord,  intent  upon  the  rite. 


no     A   Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History 

Faced  toward  the  god  communing,  even  then 
They  stabbed  my  brave  lord  in  the  open  back, 
But  not  to  death.     He  wrenched  the  dagger  out, 
Backed  to  the  colonnade,  and  snatched  therefrom 
The  hanging  armour,  clad  himself,  and  stood 
Tremendous  on  the  stair.     "And  why,"  he  cried, 
"Slay  ye  a  pious  pilgrim,  Delphians?     Why? 
Tell  me  the  charge  that  I  must  die  upon." 
Whereto  from  all  their  numbers  never  one 
Made  answer  but  with  hail  of  stones,  that  beat 
Upon  him  furiously,  the  while  his  shield 
With  ineffective  ward  to  right  and  left 
Made  shift  against  the  shower,  now  arrows,  now 
Knives,  javelins,  creases,  all  an  armoury. 
Growing  to  a  heap  of  steel  about  his  feet, 
Which  kept  a  dance,  you  never  saw  the  like, 
So  strange  and  horrible,  to  escape  the  fall. 

But  when  the  crowded  ring  began  to  close 
Towards  him,  respiteless,  and  taxed  his  breath, 
Down  from  the  altar-step  the  gallant  knight 
Leaped,  as  he  leaped  upon  the  foe  in  Troy, 
The  victim  turned  assailant.     And  they  turned. 
Like  doves  that  see  a  hawk,  they  turned  and  fled. 
And  many  fell,  pierced  in  the  coward  back 
Or  jostled  in  the  strait  and  cumbered  port. 
Rending  the  silence  of  the  sanctuary 
With  yells  that  echoed  from  the  cliffs. 

My  lord 
Shone  in  his  harness  for  a  passing  while, 
An  orb  disclouded. 

Then  from  the  unapproachable 
And  holiest  a  mysterious  thrilling  call 
Rallied  the  fliers ;  and  my  noble  lord. 
Struck  through  the  body  by  a  Delphian, 
Whom  with  a  many  more  of  them  he  slew, 


A  Tragi-Comedy  and  a  Page  of  History     1 1 1 

Fell ;  and  thereon,  when  he  was  down,  oh,  then 
Was  ne'er  a  hand  but  had  a  hack  at  him, 
Stoned  him  or  stabbed,  until  his  comely  form 
Was  utterly  disgraced  with  ghastly  wounds. 
Then,  lest  the  nearness  of  the  corpse  offend, 
They  flung  it  o'er  the  censer-sacred  pale. 
We,  on  our  shoulders  lifting  it  with  haste. 
Have  borne  it  hither,  my  lord,  my  father,  to  thee 
For  grace  of  tears  and  honour  of  the  grave. 

But  oh  !  the  Teacher  of  the  world,  the  Judge 
Of  all  mankind,  so  foully  to  abuse 
The  fair  submission  of  Achilles'  son  ! 
This  unforgiving  malice,  base  in  man, 
Doth  it  consist  with  goodness  in  the  god? 

Long  ago  the  injured  mortal  has  had  his 
revenge  of  the  false  deity.  The  pen  of  the  poet 
was  writing  against  Apollo  the  irrevocable  sen- 
tence even  then.  The  spade  of  the  explorer, 
when  it  turns  the  soil  of  Castri,  will  scarce  find 
the  tomb  of  Neoptolemus,  and  of  Phoebus  never 
a  ghost.     Let  us  part  from  them  all  in  peace. 


ht^nt^  "■■"'     y 


/ 


LOVE  AND   LAW 

"It  makes  a  man  despair  of  history." — R.  Browning 

If  Macaulay  was  right,  as  he  obviously  was,  in 
insisting  on  the  historical  importance  of  the  mutual 
relations  between  the  sexes,  there  is  no  age  for  which 
these  relations  are  of  greater  moment,  or  perhaps 
so  great,  as  for  the  cardinal  period  of  European 
development,  in  which  the  original  Roman  Empire 
of  the  West  was  formed  and  transformed,  and  in 
which  the  dominant  religion  of  Europe  took  its  rise. 
The  successful  enterprise  of  Augustus  is  the  basis 
upon  which  political  and  social  Europe  was  built. 
And  if  there  is  any  limited  proposition  which,  in  the 
complication  of  causes,  we  can  make  with  practical 
truth  as  to  the  cause  of  any  one  event,  it  is  that 
Augustus  succeeded  because  he  professed  and  really 
aspired  to  be  the  regenerator  of  Roman  society,  the 
purifier  and  protector  of  the  Roman  family.  This 
is  indeed  a  familiar  and  even  a  commonplace  truth. 
The  interdependence  of  cause  and  effect  is  here  no 
matter  of  subtle  analysis  or  calculation  ;  it  lies  before 
us  upon  the  record,  material  and  palpable.  The 
military  forces,  with  which  Augustus  conquered,  all 
but  failed  him  in  the  crisis  of  his  fate  from  the  vulgar 


Love  and  Law  113 

want  of  money.  They  would  actually  have  failed 
him  but  for  the  direct  support  in  cash  of  the  better 
classes  in  Italy.  And  the  support  given  then,  and 
given  in  other  forms  before  and  afterwards,  was 
tendered  upon  the  ground  put  forward  repeatedly 
by  the  Emperor  himself  and  by  his  literary  inter- 
preters— that  morality  must  be  rescued ;  that  the 
family,  as  the  source  of  population  and  strength, 
must  be  reconstituted  ;  and  in  particular  that  the 
institution  of  marriage  must  be  restored  to  its 
primitive  honour  and  power. 

By  what  means  it  was  attempted  to  redeem  these 
promises,  how  inadequate  was  the  conception  both 
of  the  evil  and  of  the  remedy,  and  how  it  befell  that 
civilization  actually  died  of  its  distemper,  hastened 
fearfully  in  the  close  by  external  violence,  is  partly 
known,  and  may  be  better  known  by  the  labour  of 
our  historians  present  and  to  come.  It  need  hardly 
be  said  that  I  do  not  now  propose  to  follow  the 
story.  My  present  concern  is  merely  with  the  time 
of  Augustus  and  the  attitude  of  his  supporters 
towards  this  particular  problem ;  and  our  considera- 
tion will  be  further  limited  to  a  certain  part  of  the 
literary  evidence,  the  more  important  to  us  as  the 
total  evidence  available  is  miserably  inadequate. 

Primarily,  we  must  observe,  it  is  not,  and  it  was 
not  in  the  Roman  world,  by  libertinism,  as  that  word 
is  commonly  understood,  that  the  framework  and 
efficiency  of  the  family  were  brought  into  danger, 
and  the  whole  foundation  of  popular  strength  de- 
stroyed.    Against  mere  libertinism,  mischievous  as 

V.  L.  E.  8 


114  Love  and  Law 

it  is,  the  forces  of  society  fight,  I  believe,  at  least 
on  fair  terms,  if  not  with  advantage.  Far  more 
insidious  and  far  stronger  are  those  adversaries  which 
fight  against  family  life  with  weapons  imitated,  if  not 
borrowed,  from  its  own  armoury.  It  was  the  faux 
manage  (to  borrow  a  term  from  the  sinister  voca- 
bulary of  our  neighbours)  which  honeycombed  the 
ancient  nations  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  facility 
of  ambiguous  connexions,  quasi-permanent  and 
quasi-licit,  must  in  the  ancient  world  have  been 
something  difficult  to  conceive  under  the  wide- 
extending  and  regular  administration  of  our  great 
modern  states.  The  purely  Roman  law  of  burgess- 
marriage  was  in  itself  a  model  of  various  uncertainty, 
while  in  the  Roman  dominions  at  large  there  existed 
no  general  law  at  all,  but  a  vast  complication  of 
what  we  should  call  "  international "  regulations 
between  the  hundreds  of  municipal  atoms  out  of 
which  the  Graeco-Roman  nation  was  produced.  A 
lawyer  of  the  provinces  in  the  time  of  Augustus 
would  probably  have  been  puzzled  to  say  with  regard 
to  many  a  couple  whether  they  were  married  or  not, 
and  if  so,  from  the  point  of  view  of  what  law ;  and 
if  the  matter  were  to  be  judged  not  by  strict  law 
but  from  social  sufferance  and  convention,  the  doubt 
would  have  been  still  greater.  Most  curious  in- 
dications in  this  direction,  so  far  as  relates  to  the 
centuries  preceding  the  Roman  revolution,  are  to  be 
found  in  Graeco-Roman  comedy;  but  these  must  wait 
for  another  time.  We  turn  to  the  Augustan  age,  and 
to  the  special  character  of  the  Augustan  literature. 


Love  and  Law  115 

The  poets  of  the  official  circle  which  was  formed 
around  Maecenas  were  scarcely  less  a  part  of  the 
Emperor's  government  than  the  ministers  and  other 
political  personages  themselves.  They  were  spokes- 
men of  the  Imperialist  ideals  to  the  people,  and  of  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  people  towards  the  Imperial  office. 
They  are  represented  to  us  by  three  great  names, 
those  of  Virgil,  Horace,  and  Propertius — Horace 
chiefly  in  his  Odes,  which  were  for  his  own  age  by 
far  the  most  important  part  of  his  work.  In  the 
case  of  the  first  two  poets  the  effect  produced  upon 
their  writings  by  the  Imperialist  programme  is  justly 
represented  in  common  estimation,  though  as  to 
Horace  there  are  misconceptions  still  to  be  removed, 
especially  as  to  the  matter  of  which  we  are  now 
speaking.  But  with  regard  to  Propertius  the  pre- 
valent estimate  is  less  satisfactory.  For  want  of 
sympathy  with  the  ideas  of  the  time,  and  under  the 
vast  traditional  prejudice  piled  up  in  ages  when 
Propertius  and  his  contemporaries  were  thought  of 
chiefly  as  "heathen,"  the  meaning  of  the  poet  has 
been  misrepresented  in  a  vital  matter.  The  error 
has  practically  broken  into  confusing  fragments  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  best-constructed  books 
of  antiquity,  and  has  entirely  destroyed  its  value, 
which  is  not  small,  as  a  piece  of  historic  evidence. 

The  problem  which  I  am  going  to  propose 
belongs,  it  will  be  inferred,  to  a  class  which  it  is 
usual,  and  usually  right,  to  leave  in  the  hands  of 
professional  scholars.  It  is,  however,  most  desir- 
able that  now  and  then  the  light  of  our  common 

8—2 


ii6  Love  and  Law 

understanding  should  be  let  into  these  places,  and  that 
questions  habitually  studied  under  the  pre-occupa- 
tions  of  grammatical  detail  should  be  disengaged  for 
a  moment  for  the  consideration  of  our  less  erudite 
faculties.  I  do  not  at  all  despair  of  interesting  the 
most  **  general "  reader,  if  he  will  indulge  me  with  a 
little  patience.  Indeed,  in  this  "learned  age"  we 
are  all  of  us  dabblers  in  criticism  more  or  less. 

In  a  preceding  essay  in  this  volume^  is  sketched 
an  outline  of  the  story  told  by  Propertius  in  the  one 
work  which,  so  far  as  we  know,  he  ever  completed, 
the  poem  (in  three  parts)  of  Cynthia.  The  story, 
of  which  the  poet  himself  is  the  supposed  hero, 
represents  the  beginning,  the  disasters,  and,  after 
many  struggles,  the  end  of  a  disreputable  connexion. 
There  is  reason  to  suppose  that  the  present  scheme 
of  the  poem  was  to  some  extent  an  after-thought. 
The  First  Part,  published  before  the  poet  became 
connected  with  the  Imperial  court,  shows  no  trace 
(except  in  the  prologue,  which  we  may  reasonably 
regard  as  having  been  added  or  modified  later)  of 
the  subsequent  development.  The  First  Part  alone 
merely  represents,  in  lively  fashion,  the  somewhat 
stormy  happiness  of  a  very  young  man,  who  in  the 
hallucination  of  passion  believes,  or  tries  to  believe, 
in  the  fidelity  and  affection  of  a  vicious  woman  by 
whom  he  has  been  enslaved. 

But  the  Second  and  Third  Parts,  which  carry  on 
the  story  over  a  period  of  five  years,  exhibit  both 
the  hero  and  his  fortunes  in  quite  another  aspect. 
^  "An  Old  Love  Story,"  p.  27. 


Love  and  Law  Wj 

;M  The  Second  Part,  one  of  the  most  striking  works  of 
antiquity,  shows  him  to  us  in  all  the  varied  miseries 
of  a  disenchanted  slavery ;  while  the  Third  repre- 
sents his  self-rescue,  achieved  partly  through  the 
call  made  upon  his  nobler  nature  by  honest  ambition, 
and  the  desire  to  do  some  service  to  his  country  as 
a  national  poet,  partly  by  the  prudent  resolution, 
to  which  under  this  stimulus  he  manages  to  bring 
himself,  of  improving  his  chances  by  absence  from 
the  seat  of  danger.  His  final  "restoration  to  sanity," 
in  his  own  words,  is  effected  by  a  voyage  among  the 
distracting  wonders  of  Greece  and  Asia.  The  two 
latter  parts  of  the  poem  are  avowedly  written  under 
the  official  inspiration  of  the  Emperor's  minister  and 
his  literary  adjutants. 

Now,  although  I  was  not  there  writing,  any  more 
than  here,  for  Latin  scholars  as  such,  it  did  not  seem 
right  to  conceal  what  was  indicated  therefore  in  a 
foot-note,  that  this  account  of  the  book  Cynthia 
was  not  altogether  supported,  or  rather  in  its  main 
outline  not  supported  at  all,  by  received  authority. 
In  the  works  of  the  best  writers  on  the  subject,  the 
construction  and  plot  of  the  book  are  so  far  from 
being  made  principal  or  prominent  that  the  book  is 
scarcely  treated  as  one  poem  at  all,  or  regarded  as 
having  a  plan.  We  find  in  our  "  Propertius  "  the 
three  books  of  Cynthia  printed,  without  distinction, 
side  by  side  with  an  appendix  of  fragments,  for  the 
most  part  wholly  unconnected  with  it.  And  within 
the  Cynthia  itself  no  notice  is  commonly  taken  of 
any  interdependence  between  the  separate  poems  of 


Ij8  Love  and  Law 

which  the  books  are  composed.  They  are  read  as 
mere  units  without  any  thread,  save  that  most  of 
them  relate  in  some  way  to  the  poet's  love. 

Now,  seeing  that  the  three  parts  of  Cynthia^ 
are  beyond  all  question  in  their  general  character 
respectively  such  as  I  have  described  them  in  the 
former  essay  and  here,  it  may  be  thought,  and  it  is, 
remarkable  that  their  mutual  relations  should  be 
thus  set  aside  as  not  important  to  the  reader.  For 
this  however  there  has  been  one  single,  simple,  and 
sufficient  cause.  There  is  one  poem  of  the  series 
which,  interpreted  as  it  is,  destroys  altogether  the 
scheme  of  the  work,  and  makes  it  impossible  to  see 
in  it  any  plan  or  series  whatever.  It  is  upon  this 
poem,  interesting  and  beautiful  in  itself,  that  I  now 
propose  to  fix  our  attention. 

What  of  thy  features  can  his  memory  keep 
Who  left  thee,  having  won,  to  sail  the  deep? 
Oh,  cold  of  heart,  to  weigh  his  love  with  gain. 
These  tears  with  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  Main ! 
He  lies  belike  in  other  arms;  and  thou 
Dreamest  the  while,  too  fond,  of  oath  and  vow. 
Brave  beauty,  chaste  accomplishment,  a  name 
Gilt  by  thy  grandsire  with  a  scholar's  fame — 
All  these  thou  hast,  and  wealth.     Thy  missing  part 
Of  bliss,  oh,  find  it  here,  a  loyal  heart ! 


My  night  is  near,  my  first.     Retard  thy  pace 
Swift  moon,  for  that  first  night,  and  give  it  space. 
Thou  sun,  that  wheelest  wide  thy  summer  way, 
Abridge  thy  circle  and  defer  the  day. 

^  Propertius,  Books  i,  ii,  and  ni.     See  Professor  Palmer's 
edition. 


Love  and  Law  119 

Time  I  must  have  to  seal,  to  sign,  to  draw 
Love's  new  indenture  in  his  forms  of  law, 
Which  Love  himself  shall  certify  beneath, 
As  witness  Ariadne's  starry  wreath. 
What  hours  of  parley  I  must  interpose, 
What  long  assay  before  we  fairly  close ! 
Love  without  such  preamble,  full  and  clear, 
Lacks  power  to  castigate  his  mutineer. 
Fancy  binds  quick,  breaks  quickly.     Slow  and  sure 
Let  love  begin  between  us  and  endure- 
Then  if  the  plighted  spouse,  forsworn  and  vile, 
The  altar  of  his  faith  should  dare  defile. 
All  plagues  be  his  that  ever  love  hath  bred : 
Let  hissing  scandal  pelt  upon  his  head ! 
Wild  at  his  lady's  window  let  him  yearn. 
In  utter  darkness,  lost  beyond  return ! 

With  due  deference  to  the  correction  of  any 
Latinist  in  details,  I  will  venture  to  say  that  this 
translation  represents  with  accuracy  in  all  material 
points  the  20th  poem  of  the  Third  Book  of  Pro- 
pertius.  If  the  reader  is  not  familiar  with  the 
commentaries  on  the  poet,  he  will,  I  think,  hear 
with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  this  poem  is  commonly 
supposed  to  be  addressed  to  a  scandalous  person- 
age of  notorious  ill-fame,  and  to  commemorate  the 
beginning  of  a  degraded  attachment,  which  has 
previously  been  deplored  in  every  key  of  repentance 
by  the  self-confessing  author  of  the  book  in  which  it 
is  found. 

Now  it  would  seem  that,  if  this  is  really  so, 
Roman  society  was  the  strangest  institution,  and 
Latin  the  oddest  vocabulary,  that  ever  was  known 
among  men.     That  law  and  that  language  were,  it 


120  Love  and  Law 

appears,  utterly  indifferent  to  the  most  vital  distinc- 
tion in  human  affairs.  They  had  no  fixed  and 
ascertained  expressions  which  marked  beyond  mis- 
take what  we  know  as  an  honourable  love  and  a 
legitimate  union.  For  if  the  language  of  Propertius 
here  does  not  mean  this,  there  were  no  words  which 
did.  A  husband  in  Rome  could  be  called  nothing 
better  than  marittcs,  nor  the  ritual  by  which  he 
became  such  anything  more  august  than  sacra 
marita,  nor  the  religious  altar  which  sanctioned  his 
troth  by  any  term  more  sacred  than  an?.  If  the 
engagements  of  undisciplined  caprice  were  not 
stigmatised  by  the  word  libido,  there  was  no  way 
in  Rome  by  which  the  reproach  could  be  expressed. 
If  the  image  of  a  legal  covenant,  "drawn,  signed, 
and  sealed,"  did  not  then  express  real  solemnity  and 
obligation,  those  ideas  were  beyond  the  range  of 
Roman  thought.  If  this  poem  were  written  about 
any  society  of  which  we  have  a  present  conception, 
as  of  a  real  human  fact,  any  one  who  tried  to 
persuade  us  that  such  language  as  Propertius  here 
uses  really  meant  nothing  definite,  and  that  though 
the  poet  talked  in  the  forms  of  matrimony,  he  never 
dreamed  of  being  so  understood,  would  be  laughed 
at.  Surely  these  presumptions  are  as  good  for  the 
Romans  as  for  any  other  people.  Surely  no  society 
in  which  they  were  not  true  could  possibly  have 
held  together  at  all.  If  this  poem  was  accepted  by 
Augustan  readers  as  a  natural  address  to  such  a 
person  as  "Cynthia,"  it  is  hard  to  see  whither,  below 
where  it   had   already  fallen,  the    Roman  Empire 


Love  and  Law  121 

could  possibly  decline.     If  it  was  so,  history  ought 
to  reckon  with  the  fact. 

But  it  was  not  so.  To  interpret  this  poem  as 
addressed  to  Cynthia  not  only  makes  the  poem 
itself  inconceivable,  but  also  ruins  the  sequence,  and 
with  it  half  the  interest,  of  the  book.  We  find  it 
close  to  the  end  of  the  story,  surrounded  by  other 
poems  which  describe  the  last  determined  effort  of 
Cynthia's  lover  to  escape  from  his  thraldom.  A 
little  before  (iii  18)  he  is  trying,  very  unsuccess- 
fully, to  drink  himself  free.  Immediately  afterwards 
(hi  21)  he  declares  that,  having  now  tried  every 
means  of  escape  (many  have  been  enumerated 
before),  every  means  consistent  with  remaining  in 
Rome,  he  will  take  the  one  remaining  hope  of  a 
distant  journey.  This  occupies  two  poems.  The 
author  comes  home  completely  cured ;  Cynthia  is 
dismissed  with  scorn  ;  and  the  story  comes  rapidly 
to  the  due  and  respectable  conclusion. 

All,  therefore — the  poem  itself  and  the  place 
where  we  find  it — points  to  the  natural  conclusion, 
that  it  represents  the  marriage  of  the  hero,  or  at 
least  his  immediate  intention  and  expectation  of 
marriage.  This  he  thought  proper  to  try  as  one 
of  his  remedies.  But  with  some  judgement  and 
humour,  Propertius  leaves  it  to  our  imagination  to 
fill  up  the  details  of  the  story.  Whether  the  pro- 
posing husband  really  married,  but  the  marriage  was 
a  failure,  as  under  the  circumstances  it  well  might 
be ;  or  whether,  after  all,  the  engagement  (for  it  is 
clearly  an  engagement)  was  broken  off,  which  also 


122  Love  and  Law 

it  might  be,  on  either  part,  without  violence  to 
probability,  we  are  to  determine  as  we  please.  The 
poem  is  addressed  to  a  lady  of  position  and  good 
family.  All  her  virtues  and  social  advantages — her 
fortune,  literary  grandfather,  and  all  the  rest — are 
usually  transferred  and  handed  over  to  Cynthia,  and 
this  in  the  teeth  of  the  whole  book,  which  tells  us 
that  Cynthia  had  not  a  known  relation,  except  a 
mother,  in  the  world,  and  paints  her  always  in 
colours  with  which  the  addition  of  "chaste  accom- 
plishment "  will  on  no  terms  combine.  Whether  the 
too  commercial  admirer  by  whom  the  lady  had 
been  deserted,  was  a  husband  already  or  a  favoured 
suitor,  is  not  exactly  determined,  nor  does  it  matter. 
If  the  lady  was  married  to  him,  release  under  the 
circumstances  would  not  have  been  difficult. 

If  nothing  were  here  at  stake  but  the  meaning 
of  this  single  poem,  it  would  scarcely  be  worth  while 
to  say  so  much  of  the  matter.  But  the  truth  (which- 
ever way  it  lies)  is  of  importance  to  the  whole 
purport  of  that  Augustan  literature  upon  which 
many  of  us,  willy-nilly,  spend  not  a  little  of  our 
time,  and  from  which  are  imbibed,  for  good  or  ill, 
more  notions  than  are  expressed  by  schoolmasters 
or  put  down  in  examination-papers.  Cynthia  is 
self-advertised  as  an  official  book,  appearing  under 
ministerial  and  practically  under  Imperial  sanction. 
Both  Augustus  and  his  ministers  wrote  very  disre- 
putable verses,  and  sometimes  omitted  to  burn  them. 
The  practice  was  common  then  and  at  no  time  alto- 
gether unknown.     But  it  is  a  total  misconception, 


Love  and  Law  123 

as  it  seems  to  me,  to  infer  from  this  and  like 
facts  that  a  poet  of  the  ministerial  circle  would 
have  pushed  his  court  by  producing  a  book  really 
dedicated  to  Cynthia,  or  dealing  with  Cynthia  at  all 
otherwise  than  as  a  delusion  and  a  snare  to  the 
well-intentioned  young  Roman.  At  the  opening  of 
the  Second  Book,  the  hero,  then  still  in  his  bondage, 
deliberately  and  ostentatiously  defies  the  new  legis- 
lation in  favour  of  marriage,  which  the  Emperor, 
with  the  best  designs  but  under  much  mistake  as 
to  means,  was  straining  his  powers  to  carry  and  to 
enforce.  "Not  Caesar,"  he  says,  "shall  tear  him 
from  Cynthia."  Was  this  defiance  real,  and  not 
atoned  for  ?  Are  we  to  understand  that  while 
Horace,  at  the  command  of  Maecenas,  was  de- 
ploring the  decay  of  the  Roman  family  and  was 
celebrating  the  matrimonial  happiness  which  the 
new  regime  would  make  universal  among  succeeding 
generations,  Propertius,  by  the  like  command  and 
with  the  same  sanction,  was  filling  with  Cynthia  a 
whole  book,  unredeemed  in  official  eyes  by  any 
compensating  moral  ?  The  truth  is  that  Cynthia, 
such  as  the  book  became  by  the  addition  of  Parts  1 1 
and  III,  is  a  poetic  manifesto  against  all  Cynthias, 
a  novel,  as  we  may  almost  call  it,  with  a  purpose. 

It  is  true  that  in  this  case,  as  in  many  others, 
the  purpose  has  not  very  much  to  do  with  the  merit 
of  the  work.  The  interest  of  it  as  a  work  of  art 
lies  primarily  in  the  picture  of  man  and  of  human 
feeling,  much  of  which  remains  unaltered  if  we  erase 
or  ignore  the  moral  altogether.     But  as  a  historical 


124  Love  and  Law 

document  the  book  of  Cynthia  is  totally  changed, 
and,  as  I  think,  totally  distorted,  by  a  reading  which 
conceals  the  purpose  and  dissolves  the  connexion 
of  it. 

One  little  question,  historical  in  a  certain  sense, 
though  not  important,  we  may  dismiss.  Did  the 
marriage,  or  proposal  of  marriage,  represented  in 
our  poem  really  take  place  in  the  life  of  the  real 
Propertius  .<*  It  is  impossible  to  say,  nor  does  it 
signify.  It  was  open  to  him,  having  made  himself 
the  hero  of  his  book,  to  coin  for  himself  what 
adventures  he  pleased.  Our  modern  feelings  might 
suggest  various  arguments  for  or  against  the  reality 
of  the  circumstances.  But  then  we  cannot  be  sure 
how  far  they  are  a  safe  guide. 

Much  more  interesting  and  more  instructive  is 
the  light  thrown  by  the  poem  upon  the  position  of 
literature  at  the  court  of  Augustus,  especially  in  the 
early  years  of  his  reign.  The  Second  and  Third 
Parts  of  Cynthia  were  written  to  make  good  the 
position  of  the  author  in  the  ministerial  circle.  They 
answer  in  the  work  of  Propertius  to  the  Imperial 
Odes  in  the  work  of  Horace,  more  exactly,  perhaps, 
to  the  Fourth  and  strictly  Imperial  Book  of  Odes, 
which  Horace  added  under  the  Emperor's  command 
and  compulsion ;  only  with  this  difference,  that 
Propertius  seems  to  have  executed  himself  with  a 
good  will.  He  may  indeed  have  intended  from  the 
first  to  make  of  his  Cynthia  a  "Lover's  Progress" 
and  an  example  to  youth,  though,  as  I  have  said,  this 
does  not  actually  appear  in  the  first  and  originally 


Love  and  Law  125 

sole  part  of  the  work.  At  any  rate  as  an  adherent 
of  Maecenas  he  plainly  felt  that  this  was  his  cue  and 
his  text,  and  to  much  edification  does  he  preach 
upon  it.  His  crowning  sermon  is  contained  in  the 
22nd  poem  of  the  Third  Part.  The  21st  (the  next 
after  the  marriage)  takes  him,  flying  from  the  sight 
of  Cynthia,  to  the  far  East.  In  the  22nd  he  meets, 
at  Cyzicus,  in  Asia  Minor,  an  old  friend  and  mentor, 
who  had  been  accustomed  in  early  days  to  lecture 
him  on  his  aberration.  In  the  confidence  of  his 
recovery  he  now  repays  the  lecture,  and  scolds 
Tullus,  in  his  turn,  for  so  long  neglecting  the  duty 
of  a  Roman  to  fill  his  place  in  Rome  or  Italy  and  to 
carry  on  his  family. 

What !  couldst  thou  thus  content,  my  Tullus,  bide 
These  many  years  by  cold  Propontis'  side?... 
If  storied  Helle's  strait  have  charm  for  thee. 
Charm  to  beguile  regret  for  such  as  me,... 
If  fancy  tempt  thee  still  to  follow  back 
To  Colchis  Argo's  legendary  track,... 
What  marvels  hath  the  world,  however  far, 
To  rival  those  on  Roman  earth  that  are? 
Her  legends  raise  no  blush ;   her  soil  is  made 
To  breed  nought  baser  than  the  soldier's  blade. 
Not  here  Andromeda  was  chained,  not  here 
Was  Pentheus  chased,  Thyestes  fed  not  here. 
She  is  thy  mother,  Tullus,  and  thy  home; 
The  honours  thou  art  heir  to  seek  in  Rome, 
Speak  Latin  to  thy  peers,  and  give  thy  life 
To  the  dear  babes  of  some  sweet  Roman  wife. 

This  very  brilliant  and  charming  piece  (of  which 
I  have  given  here  but  an  outline,  reproducing  closely 
only  the  conclusion  to  which  it  all  leads)  loses  half 


126  Love  and  Law 

its  beauty  and  all  its  substantial  meaning  if  it  be 
made  to  follow  close  on  a  rapturous  proposal  to 
Cynthia.  But  this  is  the  way  we  sometimes  deal 
with  the  literature  of  old  times,  upon  which  we  have 
chosen  to  put  the  general  stigma  of  a  presumed 
indecency. 

These  and  other  lines  we  may  follow  another 
time,  or  the  reader  at  once,  if  he  has  patience. 
I  hope  I  have  not  tired  him  so  far.  The  theme  at 
least  deserves  the  hour.  Charity  and  candour  are  a 
duty  between  age  and  age,  not  less  than  between 
man  and  man. 


A  VILLA  AT    TIVOLI 

Brown  Lycoris,  hearing  Tibur's  air 
Turns  the  brownest  ivory  (so  they  swear) 

Fair, 
Tried  the  breezy  climate.     But  alack, 
Very  shortly  came  Lycoris  back 
Black ! 

The  unlucky  brunette  of  Martial's  epigram  is 
one   of   the    few   recorded    persons   in   ancient   or 
modern  times  who  have  had  reason   to  disparage 
the  boasted  attractions  of  Tivoli.     From  the  time 
when   Catullus  noted   it  as  a  mark  of  distinction 
between  his  friend   and   his  enemy,   that  the  one 
called  his  dubiously  situated  villa  Tiburtine,  while 
the  other  "would  bet  anything  that  it  was  Sabine," 
from  that  time,  and  from  long  before,  even  to  the 
present  day,  no  haunt  of  pleasure  has  had  a  wider 
and  steadier  reputation.     The  very  tea-gardens  of 
our  own  suburbs  will  recommend  their  ponds  and 
their    gravel    and    their    shrubless    bowers    by   in- 
scribing themselves  with  the  name  of  Tivoli.     To 
the  Roman  the  sound  was  sweetness.     The  clime 
of  Tibur  signified  a  celestial  region,  a  symbol  of 
peace   and   white   purity.      The   towers   of   Tivoli 


128  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

beckoned,  says  the  poet,  through  the  night  with 
a  singular  whiteness,  and  the  graves  of  the  beloved 
dead  who  slept  in  Tivoli,  seemed  to  speak  more 
than  other  graves  of  Elysian  happiness,  of  wrong 
forgiven  and  stains  for  ever  taken  away. 

I  do  not  here  propose  to  detain  the  reader  with 
any  long  description  of  the  place.  Innumerable 
writers  and  painters  have  made  known  the  site, 
lying  upon  the  front  of  the  Sabine  hills  in  full 
view  of  Rome,  and  have  told  how  the  Anio  or 
Teverone,  forcing  its  desperate  way  out  of  the 
mountains  behind,  plunges  into  the  gorge  which 
half  encircles  the  town  ;  how,  not  content  with  its 
main  channels,  both  natural  and  tunnelled  by  man, 
it  breaks  under  and  through  the  mass  of  the  fortress, 
and  flows  back  into  its  main  self  by  a  thousand 
miniature  falls,  making  of  the  hillside  an  orchard 
"  fruitful  with  shifting  streams."  We,  out  of  the 
wealth  of  poetry  which  the  Latin  poets  by  their 
lives  and  writings  have  bequeathed  to  Tivoli,  will 
but  take  at  random  a  few  pieces  for  the  minute's 
amusement,  choosing  them  so  as  to  illustrate  both 
the  charm  and  the  pathos  which  for  different  rea- 
sons attached  to  the  town  in  Roman  remembrance. 
Tibur  was  to  the  Romans  the  place  of  retreat,  in 
all  times,  earlier  and  later,  republican  and  imperial, 
the  place  of  chosen  retreat,  the  land  of  delightful 
homes,  but  in  republican  times  also  the  place  of 
enforced  retreat,  the  place  of  exile  and  of  half- 
consoled  regrets.  We  shall  see  it  in  both  these 
colours,  but  chiefly  in   that  which  it  oftenest  and 


A   Villa  at  Tivoli  129 

longest  wore,  as  a  city  and  country  full  of  de- 
lightful homes.  Such  it  was,  above  all,  in  the  not 
yet  fading  prime  of  the  empire  victorious  and  at 
peace. 

Of  the  moderate  Roman  villa,  no  palace  but 
a  house  of  some  dignity,  as  it  was  to  be  found  in 
Tivoli  when  Roman  society  had  come  to  its  full 
splendour,  we  have  one  fairly  complete  and  highly 
interesting  picture  from  the  hand  of  Statius.  It 
is  one  of  his  poetic  Studies  [Silvae),  and  is  found 
in  the  same  book  with  that  upon  the  Saturnalia, 
of  which  some  account  has  been  given  in  a 
previous  essay  entitled  The  Feast  of  Saturn.  The 
owner  of  the  house  bore  the  name  of  Vopiscus, 
to  English  ears  not  happy  in  sound,  though  to  a 
Roman  poetic  and  pathetic  enough,  if,  as  they  say, 
it  signified  properly  the  survivor  of  twin  babes, 
the  one  left  when  the  other  was  taken.  Nothing 
whatever  is  known  of  him  now,  nor  does  the  poet, 
who  was  not  the  man  to  hide  under  a  bushel  the 
glories  of  himself  or  his  friends,  say  anything  to 
suggest  that  Vopiscus  was  a  man  of  uncommon 
mark.  He  was  not  even,  and  this  is  noticeable, 
a  man  of  extraordinary  wealth,  but  merely  an 
independent  gentleman,  with  a  taste  for  literature 
and  literary  society,  and  able  to  indulge  his  taste 
by  collecting  about  him  the  sort  of  people  that 
he  liked.  All  the  more  significant  is  the  tone  of 
splendour  "in  the  air"  with  which  the  verses  of 
Statius  are  filled  and  suffused. 

The    piece    was    apparently    the     offspring    of 

V.  L.  E.  O 


130  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

genuine  gratitude  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  not 
for  any  mercenary  service,  but  for  a  boon  more 
precious  than  money.  Like  Maecenas  in  that 
summer  when  Horace  reminded  him  with  remon- 
strance that 

The  untilted  cask  of  mellow  wine, 
And  roses  in  thy  hair  to  twine, 

had  long  been  ready  for  him  in  the  Sabine  hills, 
Statius  had  been  kept  by  the  claims  of  society  on 
a  subordinate  man  of  fashion  far  into  full  summer 
at  sweltering  Rome.  In  the  gorge  of  the  Anio, 
an  easy  stage  from  the  capital,  he  enjoyed  a  brief 
breathing,  and  begins  to  record  it  in  a  rapture  of 
regret. 

With  eloquent  Vopiscus  have  ye  been, 

Where  as  the  caverned  ice  his  bower  is  cool 

In  Tibur  with  the  Anio  rolling  through? 

Or  seen  his  chambers,  that  from  bank  to  bank 

Answer  each  other  and  dispute  their  lord? 

Oh  then,  though  Sirius  howled,  ye  did  not  feel 

His  dog-star  hot,  nor  suffered,  though  the  whelp 

Of  Nemea's  forest  glared.     The  frost  within 

Is  obstinate  against  the  powerless  sun. 

And  still  in  Pisa's  month  the  halls  are  fresh. 

Thoroughly  Roman,  and  pleasing  in  its  way 
to  an  acquired  taste,  is  this  enthusiastic  pedantry. 
What  is  "Pisa's  month".''  Without  any  shame  a 
man  might  give  it  up,  and  probably  some  of  the 
company  who  were  with  Vopiscus  at  the  first  reci- 
tation looked  it  out  privately  in  the  library,  and 
got    into    trouble   with    their    dictionary   over   the 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  131 

resemblance  between  Pisa  and  the  much  better 
known  Pisae.  As  a  fact,  this  Pisa  was  the  place 
of  the  Olympian  festival ;  and  as  this  festival  was 
held  just  after  the  summer  solstice,  to  say  "  the 
month  of  Pisa,"  when  you  mean  "July,"  is  as 
natural  and  obvious  as  to  put  the  "whelp  of 
Nemea,"  or  Nemean  lion,  for  the  corresponding 
sign  of  the  zodiac  !  To  Statius  at  least  all  this 
erudition  was  alive  with  poetic  suggestion,  as  he 
very  quickly  proceeds  to  prove. 

'Tis  said  that  Pleasure  drew  with  softest  touch 
The  ground-plan ;  Venus  touched  the  battlements 
With  perfume  of  Idalia  from  her  hair, 
Which  trailing  on  them  left  so  sweet  a  trace, 
The  sparrows  bred  thereon  will  never  quit. 

Any  one  who  has  dabbled  in  mortar  knows  that 
the  coping-stone  must  be  "wetted"  with  something, 
commonly  beer ;  but  champagne  of  course  is  better, 
and  scent  of  ambrosial  Cyprus  in  some  ways  better 
still.  For  the  same  reason,  whatever  it  may  be, 
the  bottle  of  champagne  is  broken  on  the  prow  of 
a  ship  at  the  launching.  It  is  pleasant,  when  you 
pay  the  bricklayer  for  "  drinking  your  health,"  to 
remember  these  sparrows  of  Statius,  which  surely 
are  treated  with  an  exquisite  feeling.  Very  like, 
and  yet  with  a  deep  difference,  is  that  martlet,  the 
"  guest  of  summer,"  which  commends  the  pleasant 
castle  of  Macbeth,  and 

does  approve 

By  his  loved  mansionry  that  the  heaven's  breath 

Smells  wooingly  here. 

9—2 


132  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

Indeed  the  writer  of  Banquo's  speech  should 
have  furnished  our  translation.  As  it  is,  we  must 
get  on  as  we  can. 

Oh  memorable  hours,  oh  pleasant  thoughts 
Which  I  have  brought  away !     My  eyes  are  tired 
With  marvels.    What  advantage  in  the  ground, 
How  artfully  improved !     Not  anywhere 
Has  nature  been  more  liberal  to  her  taste. 
Over  the  rapid  stream  the  high  woods  stoop, 
Reflected  leaf  for  leaf;   the  water  seems 
A  moving  avenue.     Fierce,  full  of  rocks 
Above  and  lower,  Anio  here  is  calm. 
Nor  foams  nor  murmurs,  as  in  fear  to  break 
Vopiscus'  days,  given  to  the  quiet  muse, 
His  dreams,  poetic  with  remembered  song. 

Habentes  carmina  somnos,  "  sleep  retaining  song," 
says  the  poet  more  exactly,  but  I  find  it  necessary  to 
sacrifice  his  terseness. 

Both  shores  alike  are  home; — 

That  the  house  was  in  two  parts,  one  on  each  bank, 
we  have  already  seen  in  the  opening  description. 
Whether  this  fanciful  arrangement  increased  its 
convenience  may  be  doubted,  particularly  as  there 
seems  to  have  been  no  bridge  ;  but  it  is  certainly 
striking  to  the  imagination,  and  the  painter  makes 
more  than  the  most  of  it. 

Both  shores  alike  are  home;  the  gentle  stream 
Seems  no  division,  and  the  fronting  towers 
Feel  themselves  one,  despite  the  flood  between. 
How  poor  a  pride  was  his  who  passed,  they  tell, 
By  dolphins  drawn  across  the  Sestian  strait ! 
Here  is  eternal  calm,  all  storm  forbid 


A  Villa  at   Tivoli  133 

To  chafe  the  waters.     Eye  to  eye  may  speak 
Across,  or  voices  join,  or  almost  hands. 
So  small  a  barrier  Euripus  is 
To  Chalcis,  or  the  sea  that  sunders  off 
Pelorus  from  the  gaze  of  Bruttian  coasts. 

Here  we  have,  half  in  burlesque,  and  plainly 
so  intended,  that  ancient  and  specially  Roman 
pomposity  of  decoration,  huge  comparisons  and 
thundering  names,  which  so  deeply  affected  the 
ear  of  Milton.  The  most  famous  waters  of  the 
old  world,  and  the  greatest  figures  in  old  history, 
Hellespont  and  Messina,  Agamemnon,  Xerxes,  and 
Hannibal,  all  serving  to  illustrate  a  bit  of  garden ! 
It  is  a  style  which  easily  passes  into  the  tawdry, 
and  among  the  innumerable  writers  of  the  three 
last  centuries  who  have  tried  to  catch  the  trick  of 
it  from  the  Romans,  very  few  have  quite  succeeded. 
However,  upon  these  heroic  stilts  the  poet  rises 
to  the  height  of  his  subject  and  in  a  like  rapture 
continues  : 

Where  should  my  song  begin,  what  progress  take, 
And  to  what  close?     The  gilded  architrave? 
The  Moorish  piers? 

that  is  to  say,  pillars  of  the  coveted  stone  "  hewn 
in  the  heart  of  Africa,"  which  Horace  condemns 
for  an  insolent  luxury  ;  so  rapid  was  the  progress 
of  wealth  between  the  first  of  the  twelve  Caesars 
and  the  last. 

The  Moorish  piers?     The  polished  marbles  veined 
With  lace?     Or  should  I  praise  the  founts  that  flow 
In  every  room? 


134  ^  Villa  at  Tivoli 

To  the  modern  ear  this  seems  a  transition  fit  only 
for  the  "Treatise  on  the  Bathos."  Water  laid  on 
to  all  parts  of  the  premises !  What  a  noble  idea ! 
But  here  is  just  the  lesson  to  the  historic  imagi- 
nation. The  comforts  of  the  splendid  Roman  were 
in  some  ways  extremely  modest ;  the  water-supply 
of  Vopiscus,  though  by  no  means  remarkable,  so  far 
as  we  can  see,  if  judged  by  the  present  standard, 
seems  to  have  passed  for  a  wonder  of  completeness, 
and  Statius  will  conduct  us  to  the  pipes  more  than 
once  in  the  course  of  his  survey. 

Distracting  beauties  call 
My  thoughts,  my  roving  eyes ;  the  reverend  trees ; 
The  court  which  overlooks  the  stream  below; 
Or  that  which  looks  toward  the  quiet  woods, 
Where  your  repose  is  safe,  no  tempests  vex 
The  silent  night,  and  so  much  sound  there  is 
As  whispers  you  to  sleep. — What  of  the  bath? 

What  indeed !  We  are  prepared  for  a  special  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  poet,  when  he  comes  to  this 
all-important  adjunct  to  the  Roman  establishment. 
The  bath,  properly  and  permanently  warmed,  is 
the  one  thing  about  the  Roman  residence,  which 
in  the  midst  of  much  that  served  rather  for  display 
than  for  real  satisfaction  of  life,  the  dweller  in  our 
English  homes  may  notice  with  envy.  The  reader 
expects  to  hear  something  particular  of  the  bath  and 
of  the  rock  in  which  it  will  be  cut ;  but  assuredly 
he  does  not  expect  what  he  will  find,  a  piece  of 
coarse  and  grotesque  vulgarity,   standing  in  sharp 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  135 

contrast  with  the  delicate  Hnes  upon  the  night  and 

quiet  bedchamber. 

What  of  the  bath, 
That  steams  in  a  green  basin,  where  the  fire 
So  heats  the  cold  rock  of  the  river  bank, 
That  Anio,  neighbour  to  the  furnaces, 
With  laughter  sees  the  water-fairies  pant ! 

Here  is  the  Roman  mind  in  another  phase,  the 
native  grossness  and  crudeness  breaking  suddenly 
through  the  Hellenistic  surface,  as  it  does  now  and 
then  in  the  Odes  of  Horace.  Put  this  amazing 
piece  by  the  side  of  that  about  Venus  and  the 
nesting  birds,  and  we  have  a  remarkable  lesson 
in  the  history  of  taste.  However  the  house  of 
Vopiscus  was  after  all  a  Hellenistic  house,  full  of 
laborious  culture,  and  the  poet,  almost  as  if  con- 
scious of  his  lapse,  hastens  from  the  bath  to  the 
galleries. 

There  too  is  wondrous  work  of  ancient  hands. 
Metal  of  various  mould — it  were  a  toil 
To  tell  the  list,  the  gold,  the  ivories, 
The  gems  fit  for  the  finger,  chisel-work 
In  silver  or  in  bronze,  on  lesser  scale 
Practised  at  first,  and  thence  essayed  in  size 
Transcending  human. 

Here  again  we  might  feel  envious,  when  we 
think  what  glorious  figures,  now  lost  for  ever, 
were  doubtless  reproduced  for  the  decoration  of 
these  rooms,  and  how,  if  one  or  two  of  these  imi- 
tations could  now  be  found,  the  capitals  of  Europe 
would  quarrel  for  the  possession,  and  copies  would 


136  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

go  out  everywhere  into  palace  and  cottage.  But  we 
are  soon  reminded  again  of  our  compensations. 

While  my  lifted  eyes 
Strayed  over  all,  my  feet  on  wealth  below 
Were  treading  heedless,  till  from  overhead 
Poured  through  translucent  panes  the  blaze  of  day 
And  pointed  to  the  floor,  the  ground  whereof 
Was  rich  and  gay  with  such  invented  maze 
Of  pattern  on  it  that  I  feared  to  step. 

If  our  busts  and  our  statuettes  are  inferior,  we  can 
at  least  see  without  difficulty  such  ornaments  as  we 
have ;  we  need  not  make  our  passages  nearly  dark 
in  order  to  keep  out  the  weather,  and  do  not  start 
with  astonishment  at  the  brilliant  apparition  of  a 
skylight.  And  be  it  remembered  once  more  that 
this  was  a  great  mansion. 

Rooms  of  unbroken  space  there  are,  and  rooms 
Parted  in  triple  aisle.     And  midst  of  all, 
Above  the  roofs,  among  the  pillars,  soars 
Into  the  bright  air,  reverently  spared 
(Another  would  have  cut  it  down),  a  tree, 
Which  there  shall  live  until  with  kindly  close 
The  native  genius  ends  its  peaceful  days. 

Here  the  modern  mind  echoes  readily  to  the 
poet's  feeling,  to  his  delicate  sympathy  with  nature, 
which  is  not  the  less  true  and  direct  because, 
speaking  the  language  of  his  age  and  school,  he 
figured  the  indwelling  spirit  under  a  multiplicity  of 
bodily  forms.  A  Wordsworthian  would  prefer  to 
present  to  his  imagination  the  life  of  the  tree  with- 
out the  interposition  of  a  Naiad  or  a  Hamadryad  ; 
but  this  is  pure  matter  of  form,  and  we  know  that 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  137 

Wordsworth  himself  sighed  sometimes  for  the  help 
of  "  a  creed  outworn "  and  the  audible  music  of 
"old  Triton." 

Two  mounds  with  tables  set  alternately, 
Pools  of  white  water  and  deep-flowing  springs, 
These  might  have  mention, — 

It  would  be  more  convenient  for  us  if  they 
had  had  a  little  more,  for  as  it  is,  we  are  much 
puzzled  to  say  what  is  meant.  The  "  white  pool " 
was  probably  filled  from  sulphur-springs  ;  and  the 
"  mounds "  would  seem  to  have  been  connected 
with  some  arrangement,  symmetrical  on  the  two 
banks,  for  taking  meals  in  the  open  air. 

Or  the  pipe  that  runs 
Boldly  athwart  the  river's  self  and  brings 
The  Marcian  through  the  Anio.     Thus  the  tale. 
How  Elis'  rivulet  to  Etna's  coast 
Came  under  sea,  is  not  unparalleled ! 

"The  Marcian,"  which  in  this  mythology  plays 
the  part  of  Arethusa,  is  of  course  the  great  aque- 
duct of  that  name,  whose  arches  are  still  one  of 
the  celebrated  sights  of  the  Campagna,  and  remain 
here  and  there  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Tivoli 
itself.  The  water  of  it  was  held  excellent  for 
purposes  of  luxury.  From  the  Marcian  were  sup- 
plied, when  it  was  possible,  the  elaborate  and  costly 
grottoes  affected  by  Roman  landscape  gardening 
and  absurdly  imitated  in  some  of  our  own  old  parks. 
It  was   the    Marcian  which   filled  a  splendid  bath, 

^  A  pretty  view  through  one  of  these  arches  will  be  found  on 
p.  1 1  of  Burn's  Rome  and  the  Campagna. 


138  A  Villa  at   Tivoli 

described  by  Martial,  with  water  not  less  wonderful 
than  the  precious  stones, 

So  clear,  that  you  would  boldly  swear, 
Seeing  the  slabs  below,  that  there 
Nought  intervened  but  empty  air. 

To  be  supplied  from  the  Marcian  was  a  coveted 
privilege,  for  which  Martial  in  another  place  peti- 
tions the  emperor  : 

Sweet,  sire,  and  rich  it  were  to  me. 
Thy  gift,  as  founts  of  Castaly, 
Or  raining  Jove  to  Danae. 

Not  therefore  without  purpose  are  we  informed 
that  the  privilege  had  been  secured  at  some  trouble 
by  Vopiscus,  who,  having  got  his  "  Marcian,"  used 
it  naturally  among  other  purposes  for  such  garden 
grottoes  as  we  have  mentioned  above.  The  taste 
of  the  Romans  for  this  kind  of  luxury  is  one  which 
we  can  with  difficulty  feel  to  the  full.  It  is  not 
merely  a  question  of  climate ;  to  the  Roman,  under 
the  influence  of  Alexandrian  arts  derived  from  the 
Museum  of  the  Ptolemies,  the  pleasure  of  the  grotto 
was  tinged  with  intellectual  associations  now  hardly 
to  be  comprehended.  The  persistence  of  the  meta- 
phor, by  which  spiritual  influences  of  all  kinds  were 
likened  to  fountains  and  the  source  of  inspiration 
set  among  the  rocks,  created,  after  the  habit  of  all 
familiar  language,  a  sort  of  reality  corresponding  to 
itself.  Nothing  in  Roman  literature  is  more  curious 
than  the  elegiac  poet's^  description  of  the   Muses' 

^  Propertius,  III  (IV)  2  (3),  Visus  eram,  etc. 


A  Villa  at   Tivoli  139 

cave,  gemmed  with  precious  spar  and  carved  with 
quaint  rococo  decoration  in  the  native  rock — a  fit 
dwelling-place  for  the  genius  of  Alexandria.  We 
should  have  it  in  mind  as  we  read  the  description 
that  follows  in  Statius,  which,  pretty  as  it  is  itself, 
conveys  also  in  familiar  allegory  the  compliment  of 
the  poet  to  the  scholar : 

Grottoes  there  are,  for  which  the  god  himself, 
Anio,  will  quit  his  streams ;  in  secret  night 
Stripped  of  his  vesture  blue  he  leans  his  breast 
Upon  the  yielding  moss,  or  flings  his  bulk 
Into  the  pools  and  beats  the  liquid  glass 
Swimming.     The  god  of  Tiber  in  the  shade 
Lies  there,  and  Albula  is  pleased  to  bathe 
Her  sulphur-laden  hair. 

The  presence  of  Albula  is  more,  we  may  suppose, 
than  a  fancy,  for  this  medicinal  spring  was  at  no 
great  distance,  and  its  water,  widely  distributed  for 
sanitary  purposes,  probably  went  to  whiten  the 
mysterious    pools    of    which    we    were    previously 

informed. 

Here  is  a  hall 
To  tempt  fair  Phoebe  from  Egeria's  grove, 
To  bring  the  Dryads  hither,  one  and  all, 
From  cool  Taygetus,  to  summon  Pan 
From  groves  Lycaean.     Nay,  if  the  oracle 
Of  the  Tirynthian  here  would  but  agree, 
The  very  Sisters  of  Praeneste  might 
Remove  to  Tibur ! 

A  flirt  of  the  sceptic  pen  is  this,  warning  us  in 
time  that  we  must  not  be  too  gravely  religious  with 
these  half-symbolic  divinities.     The  temple  of  the 


I40  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

Tirynthian  Hercules  at  Tivoli  and  the  temple  of 
Fortune,  or  rather  of  the  Fortunae,  at  the  neigh- 
bouring Palestrina  or  Praeneste  were,  together 
with  the  shrine  of  the  Sibyl  at  Cumae,  the  most 
fashionable  places  of  oracular  consultation.  The 
Roman  lover  complains  that  the  carriage  of  his 
superstitious  and  volatile  mistress  is  always  running 
to  one  or  other  of  these  tempting  resorts.  To 
the  patron  deity  of  the  burg  Vopiscus  doubtless 
paid  a  prudent  respect,  but  plainly  "with  some 
private  scholarly  reservations,"  such  as  those  of 
Mr  Casaubon  ;  so  that  his  friend  expects  the  ap- 
preciative nod  when  he  gravely  notes  the  difficulty 
of  accommodating  in  one  town  two  oracles  whose 
responses  were  different. 

And  now  having  got  a  taste  of  his  favourite 
mythology,  the  poet  flings  himself  upon  the  feast. 

Here  we  need  not  praise 
Alcinous'  fruit  twice-harvested  and  boughs 
Which  never  were  divested  of  their  pride. 
Telegonus  is  beaten  and  the  fields 
Of  Turnus  by  Laurentum,  Lucrine  halls 
And  shores  of  fell  Antiphates ;  o'er-matched 
The  enchanting  hills  of  Circe  falsely  fair, 
Where  howl  Dulichian  wolves ;    o'er-matched  the  height 
Of  Anxur,  and  the  home  which  he  of  Troy 
Bestowed  upon  the  gentle  dame  his  nurse; 
O'er-matched  is  Antium,  which  will  tempt  you  back 
When  days  are  short  and  skies  with  winter  dim ! 

Here  the  Englishman,  even  if  fairly  read  in  his 
classics,  begins  to  gasp  a  little,  and  to  fumble  for  his 
Gradus  ad  Parnassum.     The  reader  would  hardly 


A   Villa  at  Tivoli  141 

thank  me  for  so  long  a  commentary  as  would  be 
wanted  to  make  all  clear.  If  in  this  catalogue  he 
has  managed  to  recognize  the  towns  of  Tusculum 
and  Formiae,  Circeii  and  Caieta,  and  if  he  knows, 
without  stopping  to  think,  who  the  Dulichian  wolves 
were  and  where  they  came  from — why  then  he  could 
graduate  in  artibus  with  considerable  credit.  In  the 
first  century  A.D.,  and  in  "society"  at  and  about 
Rome,  these  things  were  in  all  the  primers. 

It  is  only  natural  that  now  we  should  not  know 
them,  but  it  is  perhaps  worth  asking  why  it  is  that 
our  own  language  and  literature  is  so  poor  in  all 
such  mechanism  of  pleasant  remembrances.  We 
may  come  back  to  this  again  in  this  paper,  or 
hereafter.  Even  Statius  for  the  moment  has  had 
legend  enough,  and  with  good  effect  becomes  sud- 
denly serious  in  a  Roman  strain  of  admiration  and 
friendship. 

Such  is  the  study,  where  that  righteous  soul 
Solves  duty's  problem ;  such  his  garden-plot, 
Planted  with  virtues,  frownless  gravity 
And  sober  elegance,  and  neatness  not 
Luxurious  overmuch;  a  soil  for  which 
Gargettus'  moralist^  would  fain  have  left 
His  own  Athenian  Garden.     'Tis  a  port 
From  every  wind  and  under  every  star. 
Better  seek  safety  here,  than  run  the  ship 
Around  the  Cape  of  Storms  or  through  the  Race. 
Why  do  our  eyes  esteem  a  pleasure  less 
Because  the  hand  may  reach  it? 

^  Epicurus. 


142  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

Vopiscus  appears  to  have  missed  or  neglected 
the  road  of  ambition  even  in  literature,  practising 
it  only,  after  the  fashion  of  all  Roman  gentlemen, 
for  himself  and  his  friends. 

Here  the  Fauns 
Enjoy  thy  music,  and  Alcides'  self, 
Catillus  too,  theme  of  a  greater  lyre; 
Whether  courageously  thou  dost  assay 
To  strike  the  string  with  Pindar,  or  to  rise 
High  as  the  feats  of  Epic,  or  to  put 
The  smirching  tint  on  Satire,  or  to  smooth 
The  bright  Epistle  with  an  equal  care. 
The  wealth  of  Midas,  Croesus,  Persian  Kings 
Thou  dost  deserve ;  the  better  wealth  of  soul 
Thou  hast.     The  Hermus,  gilding  where  he  flows, 
Or  Tagus'  bullion  clay  were  well  bestowed 
Upon  thy  peaceful  meads.     Hereafter  still 
People,  as  now,  thy  haunts  with  learning;  still 
As  now  (I  pray  to  heaven)  with  cloudless  heart 
Live  on  beyond  the  term  of  Nestor's  years. 

Excellent  work  this  is  of  its  kind,  though  the 
fashion  of  it  is  gone,  not  so  very  long  ago,  out  of 
date.  Whether  it  ever  will  or  should  come  back 
is  an  open  question ;  but  one  thing  is  not  open  to 
question,  that  modern  literature  loses  greatly  in 
power,  as  compared  with  ancient,  from  the  fact  that 
readers  have  now  scarcely  any  common  mythology, 
any  general  stock  of  associations,  to  which  poetry 
can  appeal,  and  in  particular  scarcely  any  local 
associations  well  enough  known  to  be  serviceable. 
For  Scotland  something  in  this  way  has  been  done 
and  has  been  made  public,  mainly  by  Walter  Scott, 
whose  verses,  without  any  other  great  merit,  and  in 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  143 

spite  of  many  obvious  defects,  hold  and  will  hold 
the  common  ear  by  this  one  delightful  spell  of  asso- 
ciation alone.  A  Scottish  catalogue  not  unworthy 
to  compare  with  the  brilliant  Latin  catalogue  of 
Statius,  might  be  without  much  difficulty  composed 
by  an  able  hand.  But  where  are  the  local  legends 
of  Southern  England  ?  Who  but  an  antiquary 
knows  them  or  cares  for  them  ?  Could  any  one, 
however  able,  adorn  an  English  "epistle"  with 
a  catalogue  after  the  manner  of  Statius,  which 
should  not  seem  to  most  of  us  a  piece  of  tiresome 
pedantry  ?  Such  it  might  actually  be ;  but  where 
these  things  cannot  be  done,  there  one  Muse,  and 
not  the  unsweetest  sister,  is  silent.  Since  the 
Reformation  religio  loci  has  had  a  hard  time,  and 
in  no  way  has  the  anti-catholic  movement  cost  more 
to  the  arts  than  in  this.  Catholicism,  at  least  before 
the  Reformation,  was  for  this  purpose  thoroughly 
pagan ;  the  spirit  of  Chaucer's  Prologue — 

And  specially,  from  every  schires  ende 

Of  Engelond,  to  Canturbury  they  wende, 

The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seeke 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seke. — 

the  spirit  of  these  lines  is  exactly  the  same  for  poetic 
purposes,  with  a  change  of  names  and  symbols,  as 
that  of  Statius — 

Hie  tua  Tiburtes  Faunos  chelys  et  iuvat  ipsum 
Alciden  dictumque  lyra  maiore  Catillum. 

''Catillus  too,  theme  of  a  greater  lyre."  Among  all 
the  merits  which  English  poetry  has  and  Latin  has 


144  ^  Villa  at  Tivoli 

not,  one  beauty  in  which  Latin  is  rich  we  cannot 
count,  and  we  shall  not,  until  (which  doubtless  will 
be  long  first)  we  can  believe  or  feign  belief  in  such 
fancies  as  those  of  Catillus  and  Tiberinus. 

The  Argive  hero  Catillus,  or  Catillus,  or  Catilus 
(for  the  "  great  lyres "  of  Rome  who  harped  upon 
him  could  not  quite  agree  how  he  should  be  called) 
was,  under  Hercules,  of  whose  divine  blood  he  came, 
the  accredited  founder  and  patron  of  Tibur.  That 
such  an  actual  person  of  mysterious  lineage  did 
actually  lead  a  wandering  band  of  Greeks  to  the 
stream-encircled  fortress  on  the  Sabine  hills,  was  no 
doubt  believed  by  Statius,  and  is  quite  credible. 
That  his  spirit  did  and  does  veritably  haunt  his 
beloved  towers,  the  servants  of  Vopiscus'  house- 
hold and  the  hinds  upon  his  farms  would  have 
asserted  even  more  positively.  Vopiscus  himself 
would  probably  have  said  that  it  was  in  no  way 
disprovable,  nay,  on  some  grounds  likely  enough, 
and  anyhow  a  pleasant  thing  to  suppose — and  who 
is  prepared  to  go  further,  or  to  show  any  very 
good  reason  for  not  going  so  far  }  To  this  name 
of  Catillus,  and  that  of  Coras  his  brother,  faith  and 
genius  had  linked  such  glories  that  the  very  sound 
of  it  was  delightful.  They  rode,  says  Virgil,  at  the 
head  of  the  Argive  chivalry 

Like  unto  Centaurs  twain,  sons  of  the  cloud, 
Down  shooting  from  the  snowy  mountain-top 
Of  Homole  or  Othrys :  from  their  path 
The  great  trees  break  away,  and  the  under  woods 
Part  with  a  mighty  crash. 


A  Villa  at   Tivoli  145 

At  great  moments  in  the  Aeneid,  as  at  that 
supreme  moment  of  all  when  the  Trojans  are 
pouring  across  the  hills  and  the  last  plan  of  battle 
is  concerted  between  Turnus  and  Camilla,  it  is  on 
the  horsemen  of  Tibur,  on  Coras  and  his  brother, 
that  the  Italian  prince  relies\  Catillus  was  in  fact 
a  sort  of  St  George  for  the  Latins,  one  of  many- 
such  champions  (for  each  burg  had  its  own  patron), 
but  known  as  well  as  Virgil  to  every  one  who  read. 
What  figure  of  like  interest,  half  poetic  and  half 
religious,  could  one  of  our  own  writers  have  intro- 
duced as  sharing  from  local  attachment  the  simple 
social  pleasures  of  an  English  country  town  ?  In- 
deed what  like  presence  has  been  seen  in  English 
affairs  at  all,  since  Milton,  in  his  earlier  and  half- 
catholic  mood,  saw  St  Peter  and  the  deity  of  the 
river  Cam  come  in  procession  to  the  mourning  of 
Mr  Edward  King  ?  Somewhere  about  that  time 
a  certain  element  of  the  poetic  spirit  evaporated 
from  our  world ;  nor  is  it  clear,  however  modern 
poetry  may  flatter  itself  upon  its  depth  and  height, 
that  any  sufficient  balance  or  equivalent  (of  course 
in  a  merely  poetic  point  of  view)  has  been  found 
for  that  loss,  or  will  be. 

It  will  be  noticed,  and  the  point  is  vital  to  the 
lover  of  poetry,  that  though  to  Statius  the  spiritual 
significance  of  these  religious  and  legendary  figures 
has  doubtless  become  very  thin  and  shadowy,  it  is 
not  altogether  gone,  and  what  is  left  of  it  is  essential 
to  his  conception.  Venus  is  not  a  mere  abstraction  of 
'  Virg.  Aen.  xi  464,  519. 

V.  L.  E.  10 


146  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

beauty,  who  as  such  makes  beautiful  an  architectural 
design :  she  is  still  truly  the  life  of  the  world,  and  the 
memory  of  her  presence  is  linked  as  cause  and  effect 
with  this  solid  natural  fact,  that  the  living  birds  do 
veritably  love  to  breed  upon  the  fabric.  The  Fauns 
and  the  god  Tiberinus  are  not  so  utterly  banished 
into  the  realm  of  mere  story,  that  they  cannot  in 
imagination  mix  with  the  living  society  of  the  music- 
loving  Vopiscus.  If  any  one  indeed  were  to  observe 
that  Milton  could  bring  Camus  into  company  with 
his  own  self,  and  with  the  "  Pilot  of  the  Galilean 
lake,"  and  that  yet  the  spirit  of  the  Cam  was  to 
Milton  a  mere  fiction,  I  could  only  answer  that  of 
this  last  point  I  am  not  at  all  sure,  and  on  the  other 
hand  am  very  sure  indeed  of  this  :  a  mind  which 
cannot  for  one  moment  suppose  that  there  is  an 
angel  of  an  English  river  just  as  real  as  any  saint 
in  the  Calendar,  had  much  better  let  Lycidas  alone, 
and  with  it  most  of  the  better  poetry  written  before 
the  eighteenth  century. 

There  is  indeed  fiction  of  the  ancient  world 
which  may  be  enjoyed  without  any  faith,  mere  story- 
telling, excellent  in  its  way,  but  without  heart.  The 
prince  of  this  poetry  is  Ovid ;  an  exquisite  writer 
but  a  most  contemptible  and  mischievous  man,  who 
has  trained  the  ear  of  many  a  great  composer, 
but  in  matters  of  feeling  can  teach  us  only  to 
despise  him. 

It  happens  that  Ovid  himself  has  given  us  in 
one  of  his  Amoves^  a  legend  of  Tiberinus,  one  of 

1  III  6. 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  147 

the  divine  company  who  haunted  the  nights  of 
Statius  at  the  villa.  The  figure  of  Tiberinus  had 
to  the  Roman  populace  of  the  Augustan  age  a 
spiritual  significance  especially  profound.  To  this 
deity  was  espoused  in  her  distress,  after  the  birth 
of  the  founders  of  Rome,  the  Vestal  Ilia,  and  it 
was  believed  that  the  horrible  floods  of  the  Tiber 
by  which  Rome  in  the  early  days  of  the  empire  was 
repeatedly  devastated,  were  a  penalty  for  the  sin 
committed  in  the  murder  of  Julius,  the  descendant 
of  Ilia  herself.  The  vengeance  of  the  "  uxorious  " 
river  is  commemorated  by  Horace  in  a  passage 
which  is  not  indeed  of  his  happiest.  This  is  the 
figure,  and  this  the  story,  which  Ovid  chooses  as 
the  adornment  of  a  trivial  adventure  in  which  he 
supposes  himself,  the  accident  of  his  being  delayed 
by  a  stream  in  flood  in  the  course  of  a  journey.  He 
tells  the  story  exquisitely,  and  I  am  much  more 
afraid  to  put  my  imitation  into  his  mouth  than  into 
that  of  Statius.  Nevertheless  I  will  say  that  in 
any  fairly  faithful  version  it  may  soon  be  seen  that 
Statius  has  the  root  of  high  poetry  in  him,  and  that 
Ovid  has  not.  Here  is  the  legend  of  Ilia  and  Tiber- 
inus, which  I  shall  give  without  further  remark  : — 

There  as  she  wandered  barefoot  in  the  wild 
Mourning  her  blasted  fame,  her  cruel  wrong. 

The  god  himself  to  woo  her  she  beguiled 
And  heard  the  pleading  murmur  of  his  song. 

"  Daughter  of  Ida,  why  so  woeful  ?     Why 

Beside  me  strayest  thou  so  all  forlorn, 
So  mean-attired,  and  no  protection  nigh, 

Of  all  thy  sacred  glory  shent  and  shorn? 

10 — 2 


148  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

"Why  mar  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes  with  tears 
And  beat  thy  bosom  bare,  a  foul  disgrace? 

Stern  is  his  spirit,  steel  the  heart  he  bears, 
Who  softens  not  for  tears  on  such  a  face. 

"  Oh  Ilia,  fear  no  more,  oh  fear  no  more ! 

Mine  hall  shall  welcome  thee,  the  queen  of  waves : 
And  all  the  hundred  nymphs,  that  do  adore 

My  river's  royalty,  shall  be  thy  slaves. 

"Daughter  of  Troy,  do  thou  but  deign  consent. 
My  gifts  beyond  my  promise  shall  appear." 

But  still  her  shamefast  eyes  were  downward  bent 
And  still  upon  her  vesture  fell  the  tear. 

Thrice  she  essayed  to  fly ;  thrice  rose  the  flood ; 

Her  terror-palsied  feet  refused  to  run. 
At  length  she  plucked  her  hair  in  deadly  mood, 

Compelled  her  quivering  lips,  and  thus  begun  : 

"Oh,  had  they  buried  me,  a  maiden  yet! 

How  should  I  wed,  or  pledge  a  Vestal's  faith? 
Full  on  my  face  the  brand  of  sin  is  set; 

They  point  at  me  and  hiss.     Oh  hide  me,  Death ! " 

With  that  her  straining  eyes  she  covered  o'er 

And  plunged.     The  god,  to  save  her  desperate  life, 

Upon  his  loving  hands  her  bosom  bore 
And,  for  his  mercy,  won  her  to  his  wife. 

Such  were  the  fancies  and  such  the  pictures 
commonly  associated  with  Tivoli  in  the  Roman 
imagination.  It  was  a  place  of  refuge,  of  calm 
retreat  and  soothing  beauty.  But  as  in  all  shade 
there  is  darkness,  so  had  this  place  of  refuge  its 
darker  memories  and  more  grave  associations.  More 
especially  to  the  strenuous  Roman  was  it  natural  to 
think  of  retreat,  however  delightful,  with  a  certain 
melancholy  and  aversion.      It  is  for  his  last  days 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  149 

and  failing  powers  that  Horace  desires  '*  the  city 
of  the  Argive  immigrant " ;  the  same  conception 
enters  deeply  into  the  allusions  both  of  Horace  else- 
where and  of  other  poets,  nor  in  any  notice,  however 
slight,  of  Tibur  as  it  appears  in  literature,  can  we 
properly  pass  over  this  characteristic  phase. 

The  beginning  of  it  lay  far  in  prehistoric  times, 
when  Tibur  was  the  independent  neighbour  of  infant 
Rome.  In  the  ancient  world  of  little  burgs,  when 
government  was  but  feeble  to  control  the  powerful 
man,  and  when  on  the  other  hand  the  most  powerful 
man  and  the  wealthiest,  if  compelled  to  change  his 
habitation  and  go  out  into  a  land  of  *'  the  enemy," 
suffered  loss  and  danger  scarcely  conceivable  in  our 
society,  it  was  a  common  practice  to  compromise 
with  the  strong  criminal  by  sparing  other  penalty 
on  condition  of  his  departure  into  exile.  The  ac- 
ceptance of  this  practice,  which  has  sometimes  an 
almost  absurd  appearance  to  minds  familiar  with  our 
"extradition,"  was  really  not  so  unreasonable.  As 
things  then  were,  the  expelling  government  gained 
much  more  and  the  expelled  offender  suffered  in- 
finitely more  than  would  be  the  case  with  a  first- 
class  delinquent  who  took  train  for  Venice  or  the 
Riviera.  The  Roman  exile  of  the  old  Republic, 
whatever  comforts  of  climate  or  situation  he  might 
find  in  the  cities  of  the  Sabine  hills,  was  never- 
theless a  broken  man,  much  less  than  nothing, 
without  status  or  legal  existence,  without  any  certain 
protection  for  his  goods  or  even  for  his  person. 
Indeed  the  tradition  of  Roman  lawyers  preserved 


150  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

the  memory  of  times  when  even  nearer  to  Rome 
than  the  Sabine  hills  lay  land  that  was  not  Roman, 
where  the  Roman  man  was  already  in  exile.  Under 
the  Imperial  Government,  when  exile  was  meant  to 
be  inflicted  as  a  severe  penalty,  the  shores  of  the 
Black  Sea  did  not  to  the  eye  of  justice  seem  too 
distant.  And  Ovid,  who  received  and,  so  far  as  can 
be  judged,  had  well  deserved  such  a  sentence,  in 
one  of  the  lamentations  which  he  wrote  from  his 
Scythian  retreat,  contrasts  with  point  the  old  and 
the  new  doctrines  as  to  the  proper  limit  of  deporta- 
tion : 

So  mild  our  fathers  were  in  banishment, 
Their  furthest  cruelty  to  Tibur  sent. 

This  conception  of  Tibur  as  a  sort  of  asylum 
lasted  on  like  other  such,  with  lessening  reason,  till 
it  was  a  mere  abuse ;  so  that  the  name  of  the 
beautiful  town  is  coupled  with  some  of  the  darkest 
tales  in  Roman  history.  Thither,  when  the  Republic 
was  struggling  to  be  full-born,  retired  the  worst 
instrument  of  that  Appius  Claudius,  whose  half- 
legendary  cruelty  is  now  proclaimed  to  all  English- 
speaking  children  in  the  brilliant  ballad  of  Macaulay ; 
thither,  when  the  Republic  was  agonizing  between 
desperate  disease  and  desperate  remedies,  protection 
for  the  moment  from  the  fury  of  the  Caesarean 
populace  was  sought  by  some  of  those  who  had 
dipped  their  daggers  in  the  blood  of  Julius,  There, 
in  many  a  miserable  abode  of  luxury,  after  the  final 
fall  of  the  senatorial  party,  the  remnant  of  the 
nobility  brooded  over  a  world  ill  lost.     It  is  to  one 


A  Villa  at  Tivoli  151 

of  the  most  splendid  and  the  most  dangerous  of 
their  number  that  Horace  addresses  himself,  when 
with  his  fine  touch  of  grave  gaiety  he  bids  inoppor- 
tune remembrance  to  lose  itself  in  such  enjoyment 
as  the  time  affords. 

Whether  amid  the  shining  pomps  of  war 

Thy  lot  is  laid, 
Or  shall  be  hid  from  these  afar 

In  Tibur's  private  shade. 

I  was  the  more  anxious  to  touch,  before  ending, 
upon  this  aspect  of  Roman  Tivoli,  because  it  will 
give  me  a  chance  of  making  some  restitution  to 
Ovid,  whose  merits  in  his  own  kind  I  am  not  so 
foolish  as  to  deny.  In  general  the  stories  which 
relate  to  it  as  a  place  of  exile  and  fallen  greatness 
are  naturally  sad.  Many  a  native  and  many  a 
foreign  victim  of  Roman  pride  there  found  an  in- 
glorious close.  The  death  of  the  Numidian  king 
Syphax,  a  prisoner  awaiting  the  final  degradation 
of  the  Roman  triumph,  is  tragedy  itself;  and  even 
the  cloister  of  Zenobia,  once  empress  of  the  East 
and  rival  of  Rome,  would  not  be  a  theme  for  light- 
ness and  laughing.  But  among  the  stories  of  Roman 
exile  there  is  one  for  which  no  pen  could  be  too 
merry ;  and  Ovid,  who  is  always  light  in  season  and 
out  of  season,  had  never  a  better  subject  than  the 
tale  of  the  pipers  which  makes  an  episode  in  his 
poem  on  the  "  Calendar,"  and  which  now  shall  serve 
us  for  a  conclusion. 

The  pipers  or  flute-players,  a  privileged  company 
of  foreign  artists,  whose  services  were  of  no  small 
importance  to  the  ceremonies  of  state  and  religion, 


152  A  Villa  at  Tivoli 

came  somehow  into  collision  with  the  jealous  authori- 
ties of  the  republic.  Whether  they  were  expelled 
in  anger,  or  whether  they  withdrew  in  anger,  is  a 
historic  doubt ;  but  exiled  at  any  rate  they  were, 
and  to  Tibur  as  exiles  they  went.  But  the  glory 
and  independence  of  art  were  nobly  revenged  upon 
the  tasteless  minions  of  office  who  had  procured 
their  departure ;  and  when  there  had  been  time  for 
them  to  be  well  missed,  an  involuntary  resident  in 
Tibur,  who  for  some  little  misfortune  in  his  previous 
career  had  undergone  a  period  of  slavery,  procured 
their  restoration  (and  probably  his  own  at  the  same 
time)  by  an  appropriate  feat  of  diplomacy,  which  as 
Ovid  relates  it  in  Latin,  either  Chaucer  or  Dryden 
chaucerizing  would  best  have  related  in  English. 

The  banished  troupe  their  way  to  Tibur  went 
(For  Tibur  counted  then  as  banishment). 
The  stage,  the  altar  missed  their  usual  cheer, 
And  dirgeless  to  the  burial  went  the  bier. 

There  was  a  quondam  slave  in  Tibur,  free 
By  lapse  of  time,  as  he  deserved  to  be; 
He  to  a  banquet  in  the  country  bade 
The  artists;  they  the  artful  call  obeyed. 
'Twas  dark,  the  guests  were  flustered,  when  a  post 
By  pre-arrangement  came  to  warn  the  host : 
"Your  master  (he  that  was)"  he  said  "is  near; 
Break  up  the  feast,  or  he  will  catch  you  here." 
They  stumbled  up,  but  doubted  in  dismay 
Whether  their  feet  would  carry  them  away. 
"  Nay,  go  you  must "  exclaimed  the  host  "  for  sure ! " 
And  popped  them  in  the  cart  which  brought  manure. 
Night,  drink,  and  motion  aiding,  soon  they  dreamed. 
And  travelled  on  to  Tibur,  as  it  seemed. 
So  dreaming  still  they  passed,  ere  morning  broke, 
The  gates  of  Rome,  and  in  the  Forum  woke. 


'■J 


"  U*:*"  ■^'' 


/^^j 


"TO  FOLLOW  THE  FISHERMAN": 
A  HISTORICAL  PROBLEM  IN 
DANTE 

It  was  a  natural,  perhaps  a  necessary  incident, 
in  such  a  personal  progress  through  Purgatory  as  is 
related  by  Dante  in  the  Second  Part  of  the  Divina 
Conimedia,  that  once  at  least  we  should  witness  the 
actual  release  of  a  soul,  the  discharge  of  one  who 
has  completed  his  purgation  and  ascends  to  the 
place  of  everlasting  bliss.  The  choice  of  a  person 
to  be  so  discharged,  involving  as  it  did  the  exact 
appraisement  of  delinquency  and  equation  of  penalty, 
was  delicate  enough  to  tax  the  courage  even  of  a 
Dante ;  nor  is  it  surprising  that  he  has  made  such 
a  choice  as  to  extend  the  supposed  period  of  punish- 
ment to  the  possible  maximum.  The  sinner  released 
in  the  year  1 300  is  one  who,  if  he  was  a  Christian 
at  all,  and  as  such  capable  of  purgation,  belonged  to 
the  very  earliest  generation  of  the  Roman  Church. 
To  prove  his  Christianity  was  an  affair  of  evidence, 
as  Dante,  a  strict  historian  according  to  his  lights, 
well  knew  and  admits.  The  manner  in  which  the 
poet  has  treated  the  question  vividly  illuminates,  not 
only  the  quality  and  limitations  of  his  own  passionate 


154  ''To  Follow  the  Fisherman' 

intelligence,    but   the   general   mind   of    that   most 
remarkable  age. 

Statius,  the  most  successful  among  the  imitators 
of  Virgil,  was  living  at  the  date  of  the  Neronian 
persecution    and   martyrdom    of  the  Apostles,   and 
during  the  alleged  persecution  of  Domitian  ;  in  the 
last   quarter   of   the  first  century  a.d.   he  was  the 
fashionable   poet   of   Roman    society.     Down   to  a 
recent  date,  until  in  fact  Latin  ceased  to  be  general 
reading,  he  might  be  called  fashionable  still.    Though 
his    poems,    as    we    know,    were    not    in   stock    at 
St  Ronan's  Well,  it  could  still  be  supposed,  in  the 
time  of  the  Peninsular  War,  that  a  lady  at  a  watering- 
place  might  want  them.     Vogue  of  this  sort  he  will 
hardly  recover ;  but  references,  allusions,  and  imita- 
tions in  half  the  writers  of  Europe  will  long  preserve 
to  him  a  certain  interest.     For  Dante  and  his  con- 
temporaries he  was  perhaps,  after  Virgil,  the  most 
interesting  figure  in  literature.     His  works,  as  then 
known,  consisted  of  two  legendary  narratives,  the 
Thebais,  complete  in  twelve  books,  upon  the  famous 
expedition  of  the   Seven  against  Thebes,   and  the 
Achilleis,  or  story  of  Achilles,   a  fragment.     The 
collection    of  fugitive  pieces,   or  Silvae,  since  dis- 
covered, was  evidently  and  fortunately  not  known 
to   the  author  of  the   Purgatorio ;    it  would  have 
embarrassed  his  charity  not  a  little.     Each  of  the 
two  epics  comprises  a  small  portion  giving  personal 
information  about  Statius  :  the  Thebais  an  introduc- 
tion   and    an   envoi,   the  Achilleis  an   introduction. 
To  these  Dante,  as  we  shall  see,   refers  explicitly 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman''  155 

and  minutely.  He  also  refers  us  indirectly  to  the 
satirist  Juvenal  as  an  authority  on  the  subject  of 
Statius ;  for  he  makes  Virgil,  the  companion  of  his 
journey  through  Purgatory,  claim  to  have  heard  of 
Statius  from  Juvenal  himself,  when  Juvenal  came 
after  death  to  that  Limbo  of  the  lower  region 
where  the  pagan  poets  habitually  dwelt.  What  can 
obviously  and  certainly  be  learnt  from  these  sources, 
what  has  been  here  stated,  is  fully  and  accurately 
stated,  even  to  such  a  detail  as  that  the  Achilleis  is 
unfinished,  in  the  autobiography  which  Statius  is 
made  to  give\  One  particular  is  added,  which  we 
now  know  to  be  false :  Statius  calls  himself  a  native 
of  Toulouse,  whereas  in  fact  he  was  born  near 
Naples.  The  origin  of  this  error  is  not  positively 
known,  though  it  has  been  plausibly  conjectured ; 
all  that  need  now  be  said  of  it  is  that  Dante,  who 
makes  no  use  of  the  allegation,  certainly  did  not 
invent  it. 

But  it  is  otherwise  with  the  large  and  surprising 
revelations  which  Statius  makes  about  his  moral 
character  and  spiritual  history.  He  was  converted, 
Dante  informs  us,  to  Christianity,  and  at  some  time 
before  the  completion  of  the  Thebais  was  actually 
baptized,  though  he  had  not  the  courage  to  acknow- 
ledge his  new  faith,  which  remained  always  a  secret 
— a  circumstance  which  naturally  whets  the  curiosity 
of  the  reader  as  to  the  source  of  the  relator's  in- 
formation. The  conversion  was  begun  by  suggestive 
passages  in  the  works  of  Virgil  himself,  notably  the 
^  Purg.  XXI  and  xxn. 


156  *'  Zb  Follow  the  Fisherman'' 

prophecies  of  Christ  in  the  Fourth  Eclogue,  and 
completed  by  admiration  of  the  martyrs  and  con- 
fessors who  suffered  under  Domitian.  Besides  the 
cowardice  of  thus  concealing  his  opinions,  Statius 
attributes  to  himself  a  sin  so  subtle  that  he  has 
some  trouble  in  defining  it,  a  sin  of  which  he  justly 
says  that  it  is  apt  to  escape  notice ;  it  is  a  kind  of 
prodigality,  yet  by  no  means  that  which  is  ordinarily 
so  called,  but  rather  a  sort  of  defect  in  avarice,  an 
insufificient  estimate  of  wealth,  a  want  of  attention 
(such  appears  to  be  the  meaning)  to  proper  economy 
as  the  necessary  basis  of  independence  and  the 
upright  conduct  of  life.  Upon  these  allegations,  for 
which  no  warrant  whatever  appears  prima  facie  in 
the  documents  proffered  by  Dante,  depends  never- 
theless the  whole  position  of  Statius  in  Dante's 
narrative :  the  conversion  admitted  him  to  Purga- 
tory, the  cowardice  and  the  neglect  of  economy 
have  confined  him  there,  and  determined  his  place, 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  twelve  centuries  inter- 
vening. 

What  then  is  the  base  of  these  allegations  ? 
Did  Dante  invent  them,  or  did  he  draw  them  from 
some  source  to  us  unknown  and  other  than  those 
documents  which  he  elaborately  specifies,  or  thirdly, 
did  he  by  some  process  of  construction  extract  them 
from  those  very  documents  ?  It  is  proposed  to 
show  that  this  third  supposition  is,  upon  Dante's 
own  statement  of  the  matter,  alone  entertainable ; 
and  further  that  there  is  no  difificulty  in  following, 
up  to  a  certain  point,  the  process  by  which  he  was 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman  "  157 

convinced.  The  question  has  an  interest  more  than 
curious,  for  the  light  which  it  throws  upon  the  state 
of  Hterature  and  upon  the  poet's  mind,  a  mind  not 
less  loyal  to  truth  than  fertile  in  legitimate  imagina- 
tion. He  boasts  of  his  accuracy  in  matters  of  fact, 
and  not  without  reason.  Passionately  eager  to 
know,  he  could  make  much,  too  much,  of  his  data, 
but  could  not  pretend,  like  a  historical  novelist,  to 
have  data  where  in  fact  he  had  none.  What  he 
alleges  about  Statius  he  could  not  have  found,  unless 
I  he  had  sought  it  with  singular  determination  ;  but 
I  find  it  he  did.  That  Statius  was  a  bad  economist 
and  compromised  his  independence,  this  Dante  got, 
or  perhaps  pressed,  out  of  Juvenal'.  So  much  has 
been  seen  and  proved  before,  and  nothing  will  be 
said  of  it  here.  The  fact  that  Statius  became  a 
Christian,  and  the  history  of  his  conversion,  he 
inferred  from  the  introduction  to  the  Achilleis,  to 
which,  as  his  authority,  he  has  actually  directed  his 
readers.     And  right  it  was  that  he  should. 

For  the  truth  is,  Dante  in  this  matter  has  taken 
a  position  which,  unless  evidence,  solid  evidence,  for 
the  "concealed  Christianity"  of  Statius  had  been 
in  his  opinion  extant  and  ascertainable,  would  be 
absurd.  The  account  which  Statius  gives  of  his 
conversion  is  elicited  by  a  question,  or  rather  a 
critical  objection,  put  into  the  mouth  of  Virgil. 
Statius  has  already  implied,  as  indeed  his  purgation 

^  Juv.  Sat.  VII  82—92.  The  facts  stated  really  do  imply 
what  Dante  asserts,  though  to  notice  it  was  not  the  purpose  of 
the  satirist. 


158  ''To  Follow  the  Fisherman'^ 

of  itself  implies,  that  he  was  of  the  true  faith. 
Whereupon  Virgil  very  pertinently  observes  that  the 
introduction  to  the  Thebais  (he  marks  the  precise 
passage  which  he  has  in  view)  does  not  exhibit  the 
writer  as  a  Christian \  It  does  not;  in  fact  it 
shows,  as  Virgil  himself,  under  the  polite  form  of 
his  negative,  intimates  plainly  enough,  that  the 
writer  was  at  that  time  not  a  Christian  of  any  sort, 
professed  or  concealed.  But  why  this  distinction  of 
the  Thebais  ?  Dante  alleges  Statius  to  have  been 
a  Christian.  He  indicates  correctly  what  were  in 
his  time  the  sources  of  trustworthy  information  about 
Statius  and  his  opinions.  He  then  insists  on  point- 
ing out  that  a  part,  a  comparatively  large  part,  of 
that  evidence,  so  far  as  it  goes,  disallows  and  con- 
tradicts his  allegation.  Why  does  he  do  this,  or 
rather,  how  dares  he  do  it,  if  no  evidence  equally 
good  were  producible  and  produced  in  favour  of  his 
allegation  .-*  Such  a  proceeding  would  be  absurd 
and  unintelligible. 

That  the  affirmative  document  is  the  later  poem 
of  Statius,  the  Achilleis,  we  must  suppose ;  if  there 
were  no  other  reason,  because  Dante  had  no  other 
relevant  document,  and  shows  that  he  had  none. 
But  this  reference  is  actually  given  by  the  form  and 
wording  of  Virgil's  question  :  "Now  when  thou  didst 
sing  the  bloody  war  of  Jocasta's  twofold  sorrow,  it 
appears  not,  by  that  touch  of  the  string  in  which 
Clio  there  joins  with  thee,  that  thou  hadst  yet  been 

'  Purg.  XXII  55  )  Stat.  Theb.  i  i — 40,  especially  22 — 31. 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman  "  159 

made  believer  by  that  faith,  without  which  good 
works  are  not  enough.  If  this  be  so,  what  sun  or 
what  candles  so  dispelled  thy  darkness,  that  thou 
didst  thereafter  set  thy  sails  to  follow  the  Fisher- 
man}'' The  "war"  is  that  of  Jocasta's  sons,  the 
theme  of  the  Thebais.  The  invocation  of  the  Muse 
"  Clio  "  marks  the  conclusion  of  the  prelude  to  the 
Thebais  and  the  commencement  of  the  narrative  \ 
The  "  touch  "  or  tuning  of  the  lyre^  is  the  prelude 
itself,  and  especially  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  is,  as 
shall  presently  be  shown,  essentially  anti-Christian. 
"  The  Fisherman "  is  St  Peter,  founder,  bishop, 
martyr,  and  patron  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  whose 
ship  (in  a  certain  sense)  Statius  followed  when  he 
entered  that  Church.  But  why  this  metaphor  of  a 
voyage  ?  Why  should  the  converted  Statius  '*  set 
his  sails "  ?  Nothing  prepares  us  for  this  figure, 
nor  is  it  commonly  appropriated  to  such  religious 
experiences.  But  the  readers  of  Dante  were  ready 
for  the  figure,  and  knew  what  it  meant ;  for  they 
were  all  readers  of  Statius.  The  sailings  of  Statius 
are  his  two  poems.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  Thebais^ 
a  pretty  verse^  once  familiar  to  all,  and  still  repre- 
sented by  many  imitations  (for  example,  that  of 
Spenser  at  the  end  of  the  First  Book  of  the  Faerie 
Queene)  compares  the  vast  poem  to  a  laborious 
voyage ;  his  ship  is  now  in  port.     That  ship  set  sail 

1  Stat.  Theb.  i  41. 

2  Theb.  I  33  "tendo  chelyn." 

*  Theb.  XII  809  "  et   mea  iam   longo   meruit  ratis  aequore 
portum." 


i6o  "71?  Follow  the  Fisherman''^ 

again  when  he  commenced  another  story ;  and  the 
question  of  Virgil,  construed  as  it  would  be  by  those 
versed  in  the  literature  of  the  subject,  means  not 
"How  did  you  become  a  Christian?"  but,  "How 
came  you  to  write  as  a  Christian  ? "  Seeing  that 
the  prelude  to  the  Thebais  is  pagan,  how  came  it 
to  pass  that  the  prelude  to  the  Achilleis  is  not  ? 
That  there  is  Christianity  there,  a  "concealed" 
Christianity,  Dante  assumes  as  notorious.  Notorious 
however  his  construction  of  the  passage  no  longer 
is ;  but  it  should  be,  one  would  suppose,  not  beyond 
the  reach  of  discovery. 

But  first,  what  sort  of  evidence  shall  we  expect  ? 
The  prelude  to  the  Thebais  is  not  Christian,  is  anti- 
Christian.  Why  ?  The  question  is  answered  at  a 
glance.  Because  Statius  there  acknowledges  and 
proclaims  the  essentially  anti-Christian  doctrine,  the 
test  of  orthodox  paganism,  as  it  perhaps  already 
was  in  those  days  and  certainly  soon  afterwards 
became — the  deity  of  the  Roman  ETnperor,  To 
Dante,  with  his  cardinal  tenet  of  the  distinction 
between  the  temporal  and  the  spiritual  powers,  this 
doctrine  was  abominable  for  personal  reasons,  as 
well  as  on  Catholic  grounds ;  and  he  has  noted  it,  in 
the  case  of  Virgil  himself,  as  decisively  damnatory. 
\  Not  he,  says  Virgil  sorrowfully,  may  conduct  Dante 
\  into  Paradise;  "the  Imperator  (Imperador)  who 
\  reigns  above  permits  it  not,  because  I  was  dis- 
obedient to  his  laws\"     The  sting  of  the  reproach 

*  Inf.  I  124. 


''To  Follow  the  Fisherman'  i6i 

is  pointed  by  the  use  of  the  poHtical  term.  It  was 
another  Emperor  whom  Virgil,  to  the  best  of  his 
power,  exalted  to  heaven  ;  and  the  plain  fact  is, 
whatever  moral  or  religious  reprobation  may  justly 
be  attached  to  it,  that  no  one  did  more  than  Virgil 
to  spread  and  fortify  the  strange  new  worship  of  the 
Augustus.  He  foresaw  (so  Dante  thought)  the 
religion  of  Christ ;  but  he  preached  the  religion  of 
Christ's  adversary.  What  Dante  could  not  think 
pardonable  even  in  Virgil,  he  would  still  less  have 
forgiven,  if  unrepented  and  not  retracted,  to  Statins, 
who,  in  addressing  the  Thebais  to  the  Emperor 
Domitian,  declares  the  divinity  of  his  patron  in  the 
amplest  and  plainest  terms\  For  this  reason,  and 
for  no  other,  the  preluding  of  Statius  and  his  Clio  is 
noted  as  not  the  work  of  a  Christian.  It  is,  for  a 
Christian,  blasphemous. 

And  now  let  us  hear  the  later  utterance  of  his 
Muse.  The  comparison  is  easy,  for  the  two  preludes 
are  parallel,  and  that  of  the  Achilleis,  though  much 
briefer  than  the  other,  concludes  also  with  an  address 
to  the  Emperor.  It  is  in  these  terms  :  "  O  Thou, 
whose  high  primacy  astonishes  all  excellence  alike 
of  Italy  and  of  Greece,  in  whose  praise  contend  both 
laurels,  the  Poets'  wreath  and  the  Captains'  (long 
doth  the  one  of  them  grieve  to  be  surpassed) ;  grant 
me  Thy  pardon,  and,  because  of  my  fear,  suffer  me 
yet  awhile  to  sweat  in  this  labour  of  dust.  To  Thee, 
preparing   long   and    not    trusting   yet,    my    labour 

'  Theb.  I  2  2 — 31.  Domitian  is  entreated  to  remain  upon 
earth,  and  leave  heaven  for  the  present  to  Jupiter. 

V.  I..  E.  II 


1 62  "  Zb  Follow  the  Fisherman'' 

tends,  and  the  praise  of  Achilles  is  the  prelude  to 
Thine\" 

Now  this  is  a  reverent  address,  and  a  flattering 
address,  but  blasphemous  it  is  not.  From  a  theo- 
logical point  of  view  it  is  unexceptionable ;  it 
attributes  to  Domitian  nothing  not  proper  to  man, 
nothing  which  has  not  often  been  attributed  to 
Christian  princes  by  Christian  divines.  From  the 
scandal  of  the  Christians,  the  deity  of  the  Augustus, 
it  is  absolutely  free.  Let  it  be  put  beside  the 
address  in  the  Thebazs,  or  the  many  addresses  of 
Martial  and  other  contemporary  writers,  and  the 
broad  difference  will  be  instantly  perceived. 

This  difference,  change,  omission,  the  modern 
critic,  applying  coolly  the  laws  of  scientific  inter- 
pretation, will  attribute  to  haste,  weariness,  want  of 
finish,  study  of  variety,  to  accident,  or  to  some 
cause,  at  all  events,  other  than  scruple  and  intention. 
Let  this  opinion  be  right.  But  it  is  not  demonstrably 
right.  Very  plausible  reasons  might  be  advanced 
against  it,  reasons  of  a  kind  with  which  Dante  and 
the  Latinists  of  his  day  were  familiar.  To  omit  the 
Deity  from  a  public  and  formal  address  to  Domitian, 
is  a  thing  which  might  have  been  done  by  chance, 
but  was  not  at  all  likely  to  be  so  done.     As  easily 

^  Stat.  Achill.  114: 

"At  tu,  quem  longe  primum  stupet  Itala  virtus 
Graiaque,  cui  geminae  florent  vatumque  ducumque 
Certatim  laurus  (olim  dolet  altera  vinci). 
Da  veniatn,  et  trepidum  patere  hoc  sudare  parumper 
Pulvere :   te  longo  necdum  fidente  paratu 
Molimur,  magnusque  tibi  praeludit  Achilles." 


**  To  Follow  the  Fisherman^'  163 

would  the  framer  of  an  address  to  one  of  the  Tudor 
princes  have  omitted  or  inserted  by  chance  the 
description  "  Head  of  the  Church,"  or  a  modern 
composer  forget  the  designation  "  His  Majesty." 
Domitian  was  punctilious  in  this  matter  beyond  all 
his  predecessors  and  many  of  his  successors  ;  nor 
was  he  a  man  with  whose  rules  it  was  safe  to  trifle. 
His  very  secretaries  headed  their  despatches  "  From 
His  Deity  our  Master^";  nor  without  some  such 
form,  we  are  told,  was  anyone  permitted  to  approach 
him.  This  is  from  a  hostile  source",  and  is  probably 
an  exaggeration,  but  the  usage  of  the  time  supports 
it  as  true  in  the  main.  It  is  not  therefore  extra- 
vagant, or  unreasonable,  or  improbable  at  all  to 
suppose,  especially  if  we  approach  the  subject,  like 
Dante,  with  an  affectionate  interest  in  Statius  and 
his  character,  that  his  omission  of  Deity  was  not 
accidental  but  scrupulous.  Dante,  or  the  expositor 
whom  he  followed,  did  so  suppose,  and  drew  the 
necessary  inference,  that  between  the  Thebais  and 
the  Achilleis  Statius  had  undergone  a  change  of 
feeling  and  opinion  for  which,  in  the  circumstances 
of  the  time,  no  explanation  would  be  so  likely  as  a 
conversion  to  Christianity.  There  were  Christians 
about  the  court  of  Domitian  ;  his  own  cousin  seems 
to  have  been  something  like  one ;  many  doubtless 
were  "concealed  Christians,"  and  among  these 
Dante,  upon  the  evidence  of  the  Achilleis,  would 
include  Statius. 

'  "  Dominus  Deusque  noster." 
^  Suetonius. 

II — 2 


164  ''To  Follow  the  Fisherman'' 

But  out  of  this  bare  fact,  even  if  established, 
Dante  would  not  have  made  the  circumstantial  narra- 
tive which  we  read  in  the  Purgatorio.  At  least  such 
is  not  his  practice.  His  history,  though  not  scien- 
tific, is  honest ;  and  since  he  tells  us  positively  that 
Statius  was  convinced  by  the  testimony  and  courage 
of  the  martyrs,  he  must  have  found  evidence,  or 
what  he  took  for  such,  of  this  admiration.  And  so 
he  did.  He  got  it  from  this  same  passage  of  the 
Achilleis,  by  a  process  which  (given  the  first  step, 
that  the  language  of  Statius  here  betrays  the  mind 
of  a  Christian)  would  not  be  illegitimate,  or  would 
not  appear  so  to  one  passionately  anxious  to  read 
the  beloved  poet  in  a  saving  sense.  Once  initiated, 
a  comparison  between  the  dedicatory  addresses  in 
the  two  epics  of  Statius  will  soon  reveal  another 
difference,  scarcely  less  remarkable  than  their  dis- 
agreement about  the  deity  of  the  Augustus.  The 
address  in  the  Thebais,  like  other  such  composi- 
tions, declares  for  whom  it  is  meant.  No  one  but 
the  Roman  sovereign,  and  no  other  person  but 
Domitian,  the  brother  of  Titus,  "defender  of  the 
Capitol,"  "conqueror  of  the  North,  the  Rhine,  and 
the  Danube,"  would  satisfy  the  terms  of  the  descrip- 
tion \  The  address  in  the  Achilleis  contains  no 
such  terms,  nor  any  terms  of  personal  appropriation 
whatsoever.  The  Man,  admired  by  all  that  is 
excfellent  in  the  world,  the  summit  of  all  virtue  in 
mind  or  in  action,  warfare  or  poetry — this  may  be 
the  Roman  sovereign,  and  Domitian,  to  judge  by 
^  Theb.  I  17 — 24. 


''To  Follow  the  Fisherman''  165 

the  date,  was  meant  to  appropriate  it ;  but  after  all, 
he  must  take  it  himself,  and  the  dedicator  is  not 
committed.  This  is  not  usual.  Nor  is  it  usual  that 
an  artist,  even  for  the  purpose  of  turning  a  compli- 
ment, should  depreciate  his  work  by  such  expressions 
of  disgust  as  Statius  here  employs,  and  describe 
himself  as  "  sweating  in  this  labour  of  dust."  More- 
over his  language  is  obscure.  "  Both  laurels,  the 
Poets'  wreath  and  the  Captains'  {long  hath  the  one 
of  them  grieved  to  be  surpassed) " — scholars  will 
explain  ;  and  the  reader  doubtless  knows  what,  as 
addressed  to  Domitian,  this  parenthesis  means ;  but 
a  phrase  more  ambiguous  it  would  be  hard  to  make. 
Now  surely  from  all  this,  if  we  suppose  ourselves 
already  to  know  that  the  words  we  read  are  those  of 
a  concealed  Christian,  rendering,  or  pretending  to 
render,  unwilling  homage  to  a  persecutor  of  the 
Church,  we  might  not  unreasonably  conceive  the 
suspicion  of  a  latent  intention,  a  meaning  other 
than  at  first  appears.  '*  Here,"  we  should  say  to 
ourselves,  "  is  what  purports  to  be  a  courtier's 
compliment  to  a  certain  prince.  It  neither  names 
nor  describes  him.  It  offends  by  omission  against 
a  stringent  rule  of  etiquette,  a  rule  which  the  same 
writer  upon  a  previous  occasion  has  zealously 
observed.  It  is  in  one  part  strangely  worded,  in 
another  part  obscurely.  In  short,  with  the  supposed 
application,  it  cannot  be  satisfactorily  explained. 
Why  then  do  we  not  seek  another  application  }  It 
is  the  work  of  a  Christian.  Should  it  not  then  be 
susceptible  of  a  Christian  sense  ? " 


1 66  "  Zb  Follow  the  Fisherman^ 

And  it  is  susceptible  of  a  Christian  sense.  The 
meaning  of  its  terms,  as  they  would,  on  that  hypo- 
thesis, be  interpreted  by  Dante,  can  be  ascertained 
from  Dante  himself,  and  leads  directly  to  the 
inference  which  he  states.  Statius  will  be  thinking, 
not  of  the  earthly  Rome,  the  City  of  the  Seven 
Hills,  but  of  "that  Rome"  (as  Dante  pregnantly 
calls  it)  "whereof  Christ  is  a  Roman" — the  Christian 
Church.  The  Imperator  addressed  will  be  He 
against  whose  laws  Virgil  was  rebellious  when  he 
gave  his  worship  to  the  first  Augustus,  and  Statius 
had  been  rebellious,  but  was  now  rebellious  no 
longer.  Christ's,  not  Domitian's,  will  be  the  Virtue, 
which  astonishes  all  that,  in  mind  or  act,  is  excellent 
in  the  world,  the  Goodness  which  surpasses  praise. 
The  conception  of  Christ  as  the  true  spiritual' 
Sovereign,  which  we  shall  thus  attribute  to  Statius, 
is  no  casual  fancy  :  it  is  the  essential  conception 
upon  which  the  Church  Catholic,  Apostolic,  and 
Roman,  was  actually  built,  and  which  was  for  Dante 
the  corner-stone  of  theology  and  politics.  The  whole 
Commedia,  the  Paradiso  especially,  is  based  on  it. 

It  is  the  praise  of  Christ  then,  which  will  be 
celebrated  in  rivalry  by  the  Christian  laureates  of 
both  kinds,  by  poets  and  by  soldiers  alike.  But  let 
us  observe  that  of  these  symbols  one  will  have  a 
new  and  a  totally  different  meaning.  The  Prince, 
whose  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,  is  praised  by 
the  same  poets  as  other  princes  are,  and  "  the  laurel 
of  poetry  "  means  in  the  court  of  Christ  (if  we  may 
use  without  offence  the  characteristic  language  of 


"  71?  Follow  the  Fisherman'"  167 

the  ParadisoY  just  what  it  meant  in  the  court  of 
Caesar.  Nor  was  the  thing,  for  Dante,  a  metaphor 
at  all,  but  a  familiar  reality.  It  was  for  "the  laurel," 
an  actual,  visible  wreath,  that  he  laboured  in  his 
vocation  as  a  Christian  poet  upon  the  Divina  Corn- 
media.  He  won  the  wreath  and  wore  it,  and  hoped, 
but  in  vain,  to  receive  it  some  day,  with  far  happier 
glory,  in  and  from  his  beloved  Florence,  as  we  shall 
presently  read  in  a  passage  intimately  connected 
with  our  subject.  For  Statius  then  also,  speaking 
as  a  Christian,  "the  laurel  of  the  Poets"  would  have 
the  same  meaning  as  for  a  pagan  ;  it  is  still  an 
emblem  of  his  own  art,  however  differently  he  might 
conceive  his  poetic  duty,  when  it  was  to  be  paid  to 
so  different  a  Prince.  But  it  is  otherwise  with  the 
laurel  of  the  soldier.  Not  by  such  soldiers,  as  serve 
the  princes  of  this  world,  is  served  the  Imperator, 
the  Supreme  Commander,  of  the  Church  Militant. 
What  is  meant  by  "  a  soldier  of  Christ"  is  known 
to  all  who  know  anything  of  Christianity  ;  though 
the  correlative  conception  of  Christ  Himself,  as  a 
military  sovereign,  is  no  longer  very  familiar  to 
a  large  part  of  the  Christian  world,  and  even  to 
those  of  the  Roman  communion  is  perhaps  not  quite 
so  familiar  as  it  was  to  Dante,  or  as  it  was  in  those 
primitive  times  when  it  was  formed,  when  the 
Church  was,  in  more  literal  truth  than  she  has  been 

^  See  especially  Par.  xxv,  where  the  parallel  is  pursued  to  the 
utmost  detail :  St  James  is  a  "  Baron,"  and  speaks  of  Dante's 
introduction  to  the  "secret  chamber"  of  the  "Emperor"  and  to 
His  "Counts." 


1 68  ^^  To  Follow  the  Fisherman^* 

since,  a  militant  power,  warring  against  the  world 
to  win  her  place.  So  deep  in  her  literature,  her 
liturgy,  her  most  sacred  formularies,  was  this 
thought  engraved,  that  it  has  passed  to  heirs  who 
scarcely  know  their  inheritance.  Millions  are  aware 
that  their  baptism  was  an  enlistment,  the  taking  of 
a  soldier's  service,  and  that  they  were  signed  with 
the  sign  of  the  Cross  "  in  token  that  thereafter  they 
should  not  be  ashamed  manfully  to  fight  under 
Christ's  banner,"  who,  if  they  were  asked  to  explain 
why  this  was  so  done,  would  give  an  answer  not 
historically  adequate.  Millions  more,  who  never 
heard  the  formulary,  shape  their  religious  thoughts 
by  that  figure,  and  this  not  only,  as  they  may 
suppose,  because  it  may  be  used  by  St  Paul,  but  be- 
cause it  was  adopted  by  the  Vatican.  The  soldiers 
of  Christ  are  the  Christians,  and  His  "laurel "  is  the 
emblem  of  the  Christian  warfare. 

And  if  it  should  be  said  that  the  metaphorical 
soldiership  of  the  Christian  is  not  parallel  to  the 
literal  hardship  of  the  poet,  and  that,  though  each 
separately  may  have  its  laurel,  we  could  not  properly 
speak  of  them  as  "the  two  laurels,"  nor  couple  the 
substance  of  one  thing  to  the  shadow  or  simile  of 
another ;  it  will  be  answered  that  so  we  may  think, 
but  so  did  not  think  Dante.  For  he  not  only  makes 
the  conjunction  himself,  but  uses  it  as  if  it  were  in 
itself  natural  and  obvious,  intelligible  and  familiar, 
founding  upon  it  a  peculiarly  impressive  utterance 
of  his  inner  feelings  and  personal  aspirations.  In 
Paradise  he  figures  himself,  as  a  first  step  towards 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman''  169 

his  participation  in  the  highest  mysteries,  to  be 
catechised  upon  his  faith  by  St  Peter,  who  finally 
approves  his  answers  by  crowning  him  thrice\ 
What  is  the  reflexion  which  this  act  suggests  to 
him  ?  Any  modern,  not  already  informed,  might 
guess  in  vain  for  ever.  It  reminds  him  of  the  hopes 
which  he  may  entertain  from  the  success  of  his 
poem,  the  Divina  Commedia :  admiration  of  his 
work  may  possibly  procure  at  Florence  the  repeal  of 
his  exile,  and  he  may  be  re-admitted,  as  an  approved 
poet,  to  the  city  of  his  youth.  And  what  then? 
What  conceivable  connexion  is  there  between  this 
patriotic  desire  and  his  celestial  graduation  (the 
figure  is  Dante's  own)  by  the  Apostolic  Examiner  ? 
Because  then^  as  a  sign  of  his  triumph,  he  will 
receive  and  put  on  "the  wreath,"  the  poet's  laurel ; 
and  this  ceremony  will  be  performed  at  the  church 
of  his  baptism,  "because  into  the  Faith,  which 
maketh  souls  known  of  God,  'twas  there  I  entered, 
and  afterwards  Peter,  for  that  faith,  did  so  encircle 
my  brow."  The  literary  career  and  the  Christian 
profession,  art  and  churchmanship,  poetry  and 
baptism,  these  are  ideas  which  an  average  man  of 
the  modern  type  could  not  easily  connect  if  he 
would,  nor  perhaps  would  if  he  could.  But  to 
Dante,  nursed  in  the  two  great  traditions  of  Rome, 
the  Catholic  tradition  and  the  Classic,  those  ideas 
are,  as  it  were,  two  aspects  of  one  thing,  so  that  he 

'  "Tre  volte  cinse  me"  Par.  xxiv  152,  but  more  precisely 
''si   mi  girb  la  fronte"  in  the  subsequent  allusion,  Far.  xxv 


170  ''To  Follow  the  Fisherman" 

turns  from  one  to  the  other  almost  without  sense  of 
transition.  And  the  Hnk  is  a  laurel  wreath.  His 
art  and  his  faith,  his  poem  and  his  baptism,  each 
promises  and  confers  "a  laurel";  this  the  laurel  of 
Christian  scholarship  and  inspiration,  and  that  the 
laurel  of  Christian  warfare  and  triumph.  Branches 
of  one  service,  duties  to  one  Master,  they  bring  the 
like,  or  rather  the  same,  reward.  And  he  presumes 
as  of  course  that  Statius,  when  he  had  become  a 
Christian  and  a  Catholic,  must  have  thought  in  the 
same  terms. 

Since  then  the  military  laurel  signifies  for  Statius 
the  crown  of  the  faithful  Christian,  what  is  "the 
laurel  of  the  Captains  "  or  "  Leaders  "  {duces)  ?  For 
it  is  of  this  specially  that  he  speaks.  The  soldiery 
of  Christ  being,  as  Dante  says  again  and  again,  the 
Church  Militant  and  Triumphant,  who  in  that  host 
are  the  leaders  ?  And  in  particular,  who  would  be 
so  regarded  and  described  by  a  Roman  Christian, 
writing  towards  the  close  of  the  first  century  a.d.  ? 
Who  else  but  that  "  noble  army "  of  martyrs  and 
confessors,  who  at  that  very  time  were  inaugurating 
by  their  triumphant  sufferings  the  Sacred  City  of 
Christendom  ?  Who  else  but  "  that  soldiery  who 
followed  Peter,"  the  companions  and  successors  of 
the  Martyr-Apostles,  they  of  whom  "the  Vatican 
and  other  the  elect  parts  of  Rome  are  the  burial- 
place\"  the  victims  of  the  persecution  commenced 
by    Nero    and    continued,    as    Dante    believed,    by 

'  jPar.  IX  139. 


"  Zb  Follow  the  Fisherman'  171 

Domitian  ?  These  events,  for  the  Roman  Church 
historically  important  beyond  all  others  save  that 
of  Calvary,  fill  such  a  place  in  the  mind  of  Dante 
himself,  that  he  can  actually  designate  St  Peter, 
upon  this  ground  simply,  as  "the  high  Centurion," 
"the  great  Leader  of  the  File"  (/'  alto  primipilo) ; 
and  indeed  the  Commedia,  especially  the  Paradiso, 
everywhere  illustrates  them  and  the  conceptions  of 
which  they  were  the  base.  How  should  they  not 
have  been  all-important  to  a  Christian  contem- 
porary, such  as  Statius,  or  how  should  he  speak 
of  them  otherwise  than  as  Dante  himself  had  been 
taught  ? 

And  if  Statius,  having  thus  naturally  brought 
together  the  laurel  of  the  Poets  and  the  laurel  of  the 
Martyrs,  goes  on  to  say  that  of  these  two  "  one  hath 
long  grieved  to  be  surpassed,"  do  we  not  easily 
understand  him  ?  Well  might  a  great  poet  who 
was  also  a  concealed  Christian,  writing  in  the  last 
days  of  Domitian,  thirty  years  after  "  Peter  and  his 
beloved  brother  had  put  Rome  on  the  right  track," 
describe  the  laurel  of  Christian  poetry  as  ashamed 
of  her  representative,  and  grieving  to  be  so  long 
and  so  far  behind  the  sister  wreath,  the  laurel  of 
Christian  soldiership.  Well  might  such  a  Statius  as 
Dante  figured,  eager  and  yet  afraid  to  confess  his 
faith,  and  to  devote  his  talents  to  the  service  of  his 
spiritual  Prince,  grieve  while  he  set  himself  wearily 
to  celebrate  a  mere  Achilles,  while  he  postponed  to 
this  poor  task  the  noble  theme  of  Christ  and  His 
triumphant  Church,  while  he  cautiously  trimmed  the 


172  ''To  Follow  the  Fisho'man" 

ambiguous  phrases  which,  under  the  disguise  of  a 
compliment  to  the  anti-Christian  persecutor,  should 
express  and  yet  hide  his  ineffectual  remorse.  Well 
might  he  grieve  to  compare  himself  with  the  victors 
of  the  arena,  the  Captains  of  the  Host,  who  sealed 
with  their  lives  the  testimony  by  which  he  had  been 
convinced.  "  Grant  me  Thy  pardon,  and  because 
of  my  fear,  suffer  me  yet  awhile  to  sweat  in  this 
labour  of  dust.  To  Thee,  preparing  long  and  not 
trusting  yet,  my  labour  tends,  and  the  praise  of 
Achilles  is  the  prelude  to  Thine."  It  may  be  and 
is  a  strange  effect  of  chance,  but  it  is  none  the  less 
fact,  that  these  words  are  far  more  appropriate  to 
the  secondary  sense  put  upon  them  by  Dante,  than 
to  the  primary  and  sole  sense  for  which  they  were 
really  written.  Domitian,  if  he  read  them,  must 
have  read  with  a  sneer.  The  Thebais  opens  with 
similar  excuses :  the  exploits  of  Domitian  are  a 
theme  for  which  Statius  is  not  yet  fit ;  let  him 
practise  first  upon  Thebes,  and  then  he  will  venture. 
Twelve  books  of  practice,  published  successively  in 
about  as  many  years,  had  followed  this  declaration  ; 
and  now  "  he  dares  not  yet,"  but  starts  instead,  by 
way  of  further  preparation,  upon  an  unlimited  story 
of  Achilles.  The  insincerity  is  so  transparent,  the 
uneasy  emphasis  so  plainly  false,  that  silence,  one 
would  think,  might  have  better  pleased.  But  the 
Christian  interpretation  makes  all  simple.  Between 
the  times  of  the  two  compositions,  suppose  the  poet 
converted  to  the  Christian  faith  ;  and  then  his  second 
plea,  as  addressed  to  the  neglected  Majesty  of  his 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman"  173 

secret  homage,  becomes  a  real  thing,  new,  natural, 
and  expressive. 

In  brief  then  the  matter  stands  thus.  If  Dante 
had  been  in  the  situation  which  in  Pu^^gatorio  he 
attributes  to  Statius  ;    if  Dante  had  been  living  in 

o 

Rome  about  the  year  90  a.d.,  a  poet  baptized  but 
unprofessed,  a  proselyte  of  the  martyrs,  but  a  prose- 
lyte silent  and  ashamed ;  if  he  had  designed  to 
relieve  his  oppressed  feelings  by  uttering  them  in 
the  form  of  symbol  and  enigma,  a  form  which  he 
loved  for  its  own  sake,  as  a  species  of  art,  and  uses 
constantly  in  his  own  work  ;  then  he  would  naturally 
have  written  in  just  such  words  as  Statius  actually 
employs.  Therefore  he  did  not  hesitate  to  infer 
the  situation  from  the  words.  This  argument  was 
indeed  fallacious  ;  because  the  notion  of  one  Catholic 
way  of  thinking  and  one  Catholic  language,  the  same 
in  all  ages  and  for  all  persons,  in  the  first  century 
and  the  thirteenth,  is  not  sound  ;  because  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  evolution.  The  precise  coincidence 
and  conformity  upon  which  Dante  founded  his  con- 
clusion, really  disproved  it.  Statius,  if  he  had  had 
Dante's  thought,  would  doubtless  have  expressed  it 
otherwise.  But  if  Dante  had  been  capable  of  seeing 
such  an  objection  as  this,  he  would  not  have  made 
the  Divina  Commedia.  According  to  such  laws  of 
interpretation  and  proof  as  he  had  learnt,  the 
authority  upon  which  he  went  was  perfect ;  and 
there  is  no  reason  to  think  that  he  has  broken  his 
general  rule  by  putting  forth  as  history  what  he  did 
not  believe  to  be  demonstrable. 


1 74  "  To  Follow  the  Fisherman  " 

When  he  makes  Statius  say  that,  even  after  his 
conversion  and  baptism, 

"per  paura  chiuso  Cristian  fu'  mi, 
Lungamente  mostrando  paganesmo:^" 

'^through  fear  I  concealed  my  Christianity  and 
tediously  pretended  paganism,"  he  is  translating  the 
trepidum  ("in  my  fear")  and  the  olim  dolet  ('Mong 
have  I  grieved ")  of  the  Achilleis.  The  trepidum 
indeed  he  has  translated  twice  ;  for  the  sound  of 
it,  or  perhaps  an  alternative  reading  tepidum,  has 
suggested  the  next  words, 

"  E  questa  tiepidezza  il  quarto  cerchio 
Cerchiar  mi  fe'  piii  ch'al  quarto  centesmo." 

This  lukewarmness  cost  the  sinner  more  than  four 
centuries  of  purgation. 

Two  facts   Dante  alleges,   for  which   if  he  had 
express   authority,   we    have    still    to    find  it :    that 
Statius  was  disposed  to  Christianity  by  the  prophetic 
hints  which  he  found  in  the  Bucolics  of  Virgil ;  and 
that  he  was  baptized.     Both  facts,  the  Christianity 
itself  being  once  established,  might  fairly  be  pre- 
sumed.    To   Dante,  himself  accustomed  to  regard 
i  the  Fourth  Eclogue  as  a  Messianic  prediction  not 
j  less   clear   and    scarcely  less   sacred  than   those  of 
!  the  Bible,  it  was  impossible  that,   in  the  situation 

I  supposed,  the  true  sense  could  escape  Statius ;  and 
^  it  was  inconceivable  that  the  penitent  of  the  Achilleis 
I  should  neglect  the  rite  necessary  to  salvation.     But 

^  Furg.  XXII  90. 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman''  175 

in  each  allegation  there  is  a  particularity  of  circum- 
stance, an  exactness  of  detail,  which  points  to 
something  more  than  presumption.  Dante  will  tell 
us  what  words  in  the  Fourth  Eclogue  Statins  laid  to 
heart ;  he  knows  when  Statins  was  baptized,  that  is 
to  say,  how  much  of  the  Thebais  had  been  written 
when  the  rite  was  performed. 

"  Before  I  brought  the  Argives  in  my  poem  to 
the  rivers  of  Thebes,  I  myself  had  received  baptism^" 
What  does  this  mean  ?  "  Before  I  described  the 
expedition  of  the  Seven,"  before  the  composition  of 
the  Thebais  as  a  whole  ?  Impossible.  Dante  has 
just  said  and  proved  that  Statins,  when  he  began 
the  Thebais,  was  a  pagan.  "  Before  the  poem  was 
finished"?  Impossible.  The  story,  which  Dante 
knew  minutely,  is  so  far  from  ending  with  the 
arrival  of  the  expedition  at  Theban  waters,  that 
there  rather,  after  too  many  preliminaries,  it  may  be 
said  to  begin.  The  point,  fixed  by  a  reference  quite 
explicit  and  almost  reproducing  the  words  of  Statins, 
is  the  entrance  of  the  invaders  upon  the  territory  of 
the  hostile  city^  And  the  assertion  is,  that  what 
follows  from  this  point,  the  latter  half  of  the  story, 
which  takes  place  at  Thebes,  was  written  after  the 
author's  admission  to  the  Church,  but  the  preliminary 
portion  before  it.  Are  we  then  to  suppose  that 
Dante  invented  this  ?  Were  he  liberal  of  spurious 
history  as  any  Dumas,  this  statement,  from  its  very 

^  Purg.  xxn  88. 

^  Boeotaque  ventum  flumina,  Stat.  Theb.  vii  424 ;  a'  fiumi  di 
Tebe,  Dante,  Purg.  xxn  88. 


1 76  "  Zb  Follow  the  Fisherman  " 

nature,  he  could  not  have  made,  except  as  a  scholar 
and  upon  documentary  evidence. 

Evidence  for  this,  to  him  satisfactory,  he  must 
have  found,  and  probably  also  for  the  Christian 
studies  of  Statius  in  Virgil's  Fourth  Eclogue  ; 
though  it  by  no  means  follows  that  his  researches 
are  now  traceable  by  us. 

Yet  as  to  Virgil  and  his  prophecy  the  evidence 
is  obvious,  in  that  same  preface  to  the  Achilleis,  and 
in  the  first  lines  of  the  poem.  The  poet's  address 
to  his  Emperor  (that  is,  to  Christ),  is  preceded  by  a 
brief  passage  in  which  he  declares  his  theme,  appeals 
for  inspiration  in  the  conventional  form,  as  Dante 
himself  and  his  Christian  brethren  did,  to  Apollo, 
and  claims  favour  as  the  author  of  the  Thebais. 
"Tell,  Muse,"  he  begins,  "of  the  great-hearted 
Achilles,  and  of  that  Offspring  whom  the  Thunderer 
feared  and  would  not  suffer  to  iiiherit  his  native 
heaven'' 

"  Magnanimum  Aeaciden,  formidatamque  Tonanti 
Progeniem  et  patrio  vetitam  succedere  caelOy 
Diva,  refer." 

Now  the  Virgilian  words  which  Dante  makes 
Statius  quote  for  Christian  are  the  famous 

"ab  integro  saeclorum  nascitur  ordo,... 
lam  nova  progenies  caelo  demittitur  alto'." 

"  Now  comes  the  birthday  of  ages  new... and  from 
high  heaven  a  new  Offspring  is  sent  down.''     These 

^  Virg.  Ed.  IV  7 ;  Dante,  Purg,  xxii  72,  "e  progenia  discende 
dal  ciel  nuova." 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman''  177 

words,  out  of  much  else  similarly  interpreted,  Dante 
might  no  doubt  have  chosen  for  their  celebrity,  and 
by  conjecture  only.  But  not  so.  Statius,  he  thought, 
alludes  to  them.  How  should  he  think  otherwise, 
when  he  found  Statius  presently  saying  to  Christ  : 
"  To  Thee  my  labour  and  preparation  tends,  and 
the  praise  of  Achilles  is  the  prelude  to  Thine "  } 
How  should  he  not  think  that  Statius  saw  an 
analogy  between  the  prelude  and  the  sequel,  saw  in 
Achilles  a  type  of  the  Christ  to  be,  and  suggested 
this  connexion  in  such  terms  as  a  student  of  Virgil 
naturally  would  ?  We  of  the  North  do  not  habitually 
think  of  Christ  as  the  enemy,  the  terror,  and  the 
dethroner  of  Jupiter,  as  the  Prince  whom  the  devil- 
deities  of  the  pagan  Empire  imprisoned  and  fain 
would  have  kept  in  Hell,  whom,  even  after  He  had 
ascended  to  His  Father's  heaven,  they  excluded 
long  from  His  lawful  prerogative.  All  this  never 
had  much  hold,  even  as  a  figure,  upon  our  exotic 
Romanism  ;  and  now,  when  we  meet  reflexions  of 
it  in  our  imitators  of  the  Italians,  it  has  a  foreign 
and  not  very  congenial  air.  But  to  a  mediaeval 
Italian,  loyal  both  to  the  Holy  Empire  and  the 
Holy  See,  this  was  reality,  the  chief  reality  ;  was 
history,  and  the  very  core  of  it.  Nor  is  it  now 
natural  to  seek  Christian  parables  in  pagan  legend, 
or  to  celebrate  the  Saviour  of  mankind  as  a  greater, 
a  victorious  Achilles.  The  world  has  unlearnt  that 
language,  and  we  Teutons  the  faster,  as  we  had 
some  pains  in  learning  it.  Jupiter  never  reigned 
here,  and  Achilles  is  not  our  compatriot.     But  to  an 

V.  L.  E.  12 


178  "-To  Follow  the  Fisherman'' 

Italian  Latinist  of  the  thirteenth  century  this  was 
the  native  voice  of  religious  imagination,  the  Catholic 
speech  as  it  had  been  spoken  always,  or  should  have 
been  spoken,  since  the  new  birthday  of  Time.  How 
then  should  Dante  not  suppose  that  the  Christian 
Statius,  who  joins  in  one  project  the  themes  of 
Achilles  and  Christ,  remembered  Virgil's  prophecy 
of  "the  Offspring  from  heaven  sent  down,"  when 
he  wrote  of  "  the  Offspring  whom  Jove  would  not 
suffer  to  inherit  His  Father's  heaven"? 

Much  more  difficult,  and  probably  not  now 
answerable,  is  the  question  why  the  latter  part  of 
the  Thebais,  the  Theban  part,  is  alleged  to  be 
Christian  work.  The  evidence  should  lie  in  the 
Thebais  itself,  in  some  change  of  tone,  some 
allusions  to  Christian  thought,  language,  rites  or 
symbols,  appearing  at  or  after  the  point  of  division. 
But  the  field  of  search  is  wide,  and  the  object 
vague  ;  I  have  found  nothing  which  seems  worth 
noticed  That  Dante  was  more  successful  we  need 
not  doubt,  and  meanwhile  we  can  see  what  put  him 
on  the  track.  In  the  prelude  to  the  Achilleis  Statius 
says  that  this  beginning  of  a  new  poem  is  not  his 
beginning  in  poetry :  "  this  brow  has  worn  the 
wreath  before,  as  witness  the  land  of  Thebes!'  We 
have  seen  how  closely  in  the  mind  of  Dante  his 
office  as  a  Christian  poet  is  connected  with  his 
baptism,  two  gifts  of  the  Spirit  joined  by  the 
common  symbol  of  the  laurel  crown.  With  such 
feelings  he  would  find  it  only  proper  that  a  poet 
[^  But  see  the  next  essay,  written  five  years  later.] 


"  To  Follow  the  Fisherman  "  1 79 

speaking  as  a  convert  to  Christianity,  should  date 
his  true  beginning  in  poetry  from  his  birth  to 
God.  Now  Statius  here  associates  his  previous 
work  with  the  land,  or  more  exactly,  with  the  terri- 
tory of  Thebes  {Dircaeus  agery.  By  this  limitation 
he  doubtless  means  nothing  particular ;  he  is  no 
precisian  in  words  :  "  the  territory  of  Thebes "  is 
"  Thebes,"  and  "  Thebes "  means  generally  the 
Thebais.  But  Dante,  one  of  the  most  precise  writers 
that  ever  was,  if  he  had  used  such  a  limitation, 
would  probably  have  meant  what  he  said,  and  would 
have  referred  only  to  that  part  of  the  poem  which 
really  is  connected  with  Theban  soil.  Here  was 
enough,  not  indeed  to  prove  that  Statius  was  a 
Christian  *'  before  he  brought  the  Greeks  to  the 
rivers  of  Thebes,"  but  to  prompt  the  search  for 
proof;  and  a  search  conducted  with  such  good  will 
as  Dante  brought,  was  not  likely  to  be  disappointed. 
Not  that  this  or  any  part  of  the  investigation 
must  have  been  made  for  the  first  time  by  Dante. 
The  contrary  is  to  be  supposed  from  the  way  in 
which  he  uses  the  results,  treating  them,  and  the 
process  by  which  they  were  attained,  as  known  and 
accepted.  He  went  over  the  ground  for  himself, 
we  see  ;  and  so  always,  to  the  best  of  his  power, 
he  did.  But  the  lines  must  have  been  laid  before, 
probably  by  some  one  of  the  ardent  Latinists  who 
were  his  friends  or  teachers.  Like  almost  all  con- 
temporary work  of  this  kind,  the  speculation,  if  ever 
it  was  put  into  written  form  (which  is  by  no  means 
^  Achil.  112. 


i8o  ''To  Follow  the  Fisherman''' 

presumable),  has  doubtless  long  ago  irretrievably- 
disappeared.  Dante  took  the  proof  for  granted. 
The  earliest  commentators  on  Dante  were  concerned, 
naturally  and  reasonably,  with  other  things,  which 
they  supposed  to  be  more  perishable,  and  perhaps 
more  interesting.     But  this  has  an  interest  too. 


DANTE  ON  THE  BAPTISM 
OF  STATIUS 

All  readers  of  Dante  will  remember  his  strange 
problem  concerning  the  position  in  Purgatory  as- 
signed to  the  poet  Statius,  and  the  historical  ex- 
planation, elaborate  and  confident,  by  which  that 
position  is  justified  and  defended\  Statius,  one  of 
the  most  successful  and  celebrated  among  the 
followers  of  Virgil,  lived  and  wrote  in  the  second 
half  of  the  first  century  a.d.,  chiefly  under  the 
Emperor  Domitian.  According  to  Dante,  his  soul, 
for  various  offences,  had  continued  in  Purgatory 
from  his  death  to  the  year  1 300,  the  date  of  Dante's 
journey  through  the  three  worlds,  and  was  at  that 
very  time  released, — the  sole  example  of  such  an 
event  which  the  poet  of  the  Purgatorio  exhibits. 
Now,  to  be  qualified  for  Purgatory,  it  was  of  course 
necessary  that  Statius  should  have  been  a  Christian. 
This  he  might  possibly  have  been  ;  but  of  the  fact 
there  is  not  the  least  record,  nor  any  trace  of  a  tradi- 
tion to  that  effect.  On  the  other  hand,  the  work  of 
Statius,  or  at  least  his  principal  work,  the  Thebaid, 
contains  unquestionable  evidence  that  the  author  was 

^  Purgatorio  xxi  and  xxii,  especially  xxii  55  foil. 


1 82  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

not  a  Christian,  and  (most  remarkable  of  all)  this  fact, 
apparently  fatal  to  Dante's  assumption,  is  clearly  and 
emphatically  indicated  by  Dante  himself.  It  is  an 
inevitable  and  an  interesting  question,  upon  what 
grounds  Dante  thought  himself  justified  in  over- 
ruling this  evidence,  what  answer  he  made,  or 
supposed  himself  able  to  make,  to  the  initial  ob- 
jection which  he  has  raised  against  his  own 
narrative. 

This  question  has  been  discussed  fully  in  the 
immediately  preceding  essay \  It  was  there  shown 
that,  as  we  might  faii;ly  expect,  the  evidence  upon 
which  Dante  relied  as  favourable  to  the  Christianity 
of  Statius,  was  evidence  of  the  same  character,  and, 
if  valid,  of  the  same  authenticity,  as  that  which  he 
has  himself  adduced  on  the  other  side.  It  was 
evidence  from  the  work  of  Statius  himself.  The 
argument,  which  is  sufficiently  indicated  by  Dante 
in  the  Purgatorio,  and  fortified  by  references  to  the 
relevant  passages,  turns  upon  the  difference  between 
the  poetical  prefaces  prefixed  by  Statius  to  his  earlier 
and  complete  poem,  the  Tkebaid,  and  to  the  later 
and  incomplete  Achilleid.  Both  these  prefaces 
comprise,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  a 
complimentary  address  to  the  reigning  Emperor, 
Domitian.  The  custom  of  the  time  demanded  that 
the  Roman  Emperor,  who  claimed  a  divine  character, 
should  be  recognized  in  this  character  by  those  who 
addressed  him:  he  must  be  addressed  as  a  "god." 
In  the  preface  to  the  Thebaid  Statius  complies  with 
^  To  follow  the  Fisherman^  p.  153. 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  183 

this  requirement  fully,  and  with  apparent  enthusiasm. 
In  the  preface  to  the  Achilleid  there  is  not  the  least 
reference  to  this  aspect  of  the  monarch,  and  the  ad- 
dress, though  respectful,  contains  nothing  which  might 
not  be  said  by  a  Christian,  Dante,  or  the  authorities 
whom  he  followed,  assumed  that  this  change  of  tone 
and  style  was  not  (as  it  probably  is)  accidental,  but 
deliberate.  If  it  were  so,  it  would  indeed  go  far  to 
show  that  the  author,  before  he  wrote  the  second 
address,  had  adopted  the  Christian  view  upon  this 
vital  question,  the  test-question,  as  will  be  remem- 
bered, by  which  Christianity,  under  the  pagan  Em- 
pire, was  commonly  proved.  The  assumption  of 
deliberate  change,  and  the  argument  from  it,  though 
not  justified  by  sound  criticism,  is  by  no  means 
absurd  ;  and  it  is  not  strange  that  Dante,  for  whose 
poetical  purpose  in  the  Purgatorio  a  Christian  Statius 
was  extremely  and  uniquely  suitable,  should  have 
found  the  theory  convincing. 

For  the  details  of  the  supposed  proof,  which  are 
curiously  illustrative  of  the  scholarship  and  methods 
of  thinking  prevalent  in  Dante's  time,  and  can  be 
pursued  far  by  the  indications  of  his  text,  the  reader 
is  referred  to  the  preceding  essay.  Our  present 
purpose  is  to  elucidate  a  point  which  was  then  left 
in  some  doubt, — upon  what  grounds  Dante  held 
himself  warranted  in  his  strangely  precise  statement 
respecting  the  baptism  of  the  supposed  convert. 
For  this  purpose  we  shall  assume  from  the  previous 
discussion  only  the  main  results,  that  the  Christianity 
of  Statius,  according  to  Dante,  is  demonstrable  and 


184  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

demonstrated  by  reference,  chapter  and  verse,  to  the 
works  of  Statius  himself,  and  in  particular  to  the 
prefaces  of  his  earlier  poem,  the  Thebaid,  and  of 
his  later,  the  Achilleid\  the  first  of  which  prefaces 
is,  as  Dante  admits,  the  composition  of  a  pagan, 
but  the  second,  as  he  implies,  is  the  composition 
of  a  Christian. 

The  subject  of  the  Thebaid — this  also  it  will  be 
convenient  to  recall — is  the  invasion  of  Thebes  by 
a  body  of  confederates,  chiefly  Argives,  who  support 
the  claims  of  Polynices  against  the  alleged  usurpation 
of  his  brother  Eteocles.  The  contest  is  the  theme  of 
the  Seven  against  Thebes  of  Aeschylus,  and,  chiefly 
through  Statius,  became  the  subject  of  frequent 
allusions  in  modern  literatures,  as  in  our  own  from 
Chaucer  downwards.  With  these  preliminaries,  we 
may  come  to  our  special  point. 

Having  established,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  that 
Statius  was  a  Christian  when  he  wrote  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Achilleid,  Dante  might  well 
assume,  without  further  proof,  that,  before  that  time, 
the  convert  had  actually  joined  the  Church,  and  had 
privately  received  the  initiatory  rite,  which  could  not 
without  deadly  peril  be  deferred.  He  might  even 
perhaps  assume,  though  the  evidence  did  not  go 
quite  so  far,  that  the  conversion  and  the  baptism 
were  accomplished  at  some  time  during  the  twelve 
years  which,  as  Statius  himself  tells  us,  were  occu- 
pied by  the  composition  of  the  Thebaid.  And  if 
Dante  were  content  so  to  limit  his  statement  about 
the  performance  of  the  rite,  if  he  merely  said  that 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  185 

Statius  received  baptism  during  the  composition  of 
the  Thebaid,  there  would  be,  on  this  head,  no  par- 
ticular observation  to  make. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Dante  goes  far  beyond 
this.  He  has  the  audacity — that  is  the  word  which 
naturally  presents  itself — to  date  the  event,  the  bap- 
tism, by  a  particular  passage,  a  definite  point  in  the 
Thebaid,  which  no  one,  familiar  with  the  poem,  could 
fail  to  recognize.  *'  I  had  received  baptism,"  so  he 
makes  Statius  say,  "  before,  as  a  poet,  I  had  brought 
the  Greeks  to  the  rivers  of  Thebes." 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  expositors  of  Dante 
have  tried  to  relieve  their  author  of  responsibility  for 
this  startling  precision,  and  to  persuade  themselves 
and  others,  that  by  "  the  bringing  of  the  Greeks  to 
the  rivers  of  Thebes "  Dante  describes  the  whole 
story  of  the  Thebaid,  and  means  no  more  than  that, 
at  some  time  during  the  relation  of  this  story,  the 
baptism  took  place.  But  this  interpretation,  how- 
ever well  meant,  could  not  for  a  moment  impose  on 
any  one  familiar  with  the  Thebaid.  The  arrival  of 
the  Greeks  (that  is  to  say,  of  the  Argive  invaders) 
at  the  rivers  of  Thebes  is  not  a  conceivable  phrase 
with  which  to  mark  the  close  of  the  Thebaid  or  to 
sum  up  the  story.  To  one  who  knew  the  poem  at 
all — and  Dante  knew  it  well — such  a  description 
could  not  possibly  occur.  The  arrival  is  a  con- 
spicuous and  cardinal  point  in  the  middle  of  the 
poem,  dividing  it  into  two  nearly  equal  parts,  which 
differ  broadly  in  contents  and  theme.  The  pre- 
ceding portion  contains  the  preliminaries  to  the  war 


1 86  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statius 

(together  with  much  else  of  doubtful  relevance);  the 
sequel,  more  continuous  and  coherent,  relates  the  war 
itself  and  the  fates  of  the  Argive  leaders,  concluding 
of  course  with  the  internecine  duel  of  the  rival 
brothers.  With  as  much,  or  as  little,  propriety 
might  Milton  be  made  to  describe  the  whole  story 
of  Paradise  Lost  as  "  the  bringing  of  Satan  through 
Chaos,"  or  Scott  to  mark  the  end  of  Guy  Mannering 
by  the  phrase  "before  I  had  brought  my  hero  to 
the  landing-place  at  Ellangowan."  "  Before  Sophia 
Western  reached  London," — "  before  I  had  got  Mr 
Pickwick  into  prison," — ''before  Jeanie  Deans  ar- 
rived at  Richmond," — "before  Queen  Guinevere 
fled  from  the  court  to  Almesbury"  :  these  phrases 
mark  conspicuous  points  within  the  respective  stories, 
and  could  not  possibly  be  otherwise  meant  or  under- 
stood. The  last  example  illustrates  the  phrase  of 
Dante  in  this  significant  detail,  that  it  marks  the 
intended  point  by  reference  to  the  very  words  of 
the  narrator — 

"Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court..." 

So  also  Dante ;  for  in  his  words  "  to  the  rivers  of 
Thebes,"  ''2^  fiumi  di  Tebe,"  the  noticeable  plural 
is  a  literal,  rather  too  literal,  reproduction  of  Statius, 
who  writes,  at  the  place  indicated^ — 

"  lam  ripas,  Asope,  tuas  Boeotaque  ventum 
flumina.''^ 

And  further,  the  necessity  of  a  definite  reference, 
the  impossibility  of  a  loose  and  vague  interpretation, 

^  Statius,  Thebaid,  vii  424. 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  187 

is  much  stronger  in  the  phrase  of  Dante  than  in  any 
of  the  various  parallels  above  suggested.  For  the 
arrival  at  the  rivers,  so  far  from  being  the  close  and 
sum  of  Statius'  story,  is  much  rather  the  beginning 
of  it,  the  point  at  which,  after  long,  too  long,  post- 
ponement, he  takes  up  at  last  the  narrative  of  the 
war,  the  subject  announced  in  the  opening.  This 
defect  of  construction,  the  extension  of  the  prelimi- 
naries by  episodes  more  or  less  irrelevant,  until  they 
actually  cover  one-half  of  the  entire  composition,  is 
a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  Thebaid\  and  the  phrase 
of  Dante  "  before  I  had  brought  the  Greeks  to  the 
rivers  of  Thebes  "  recalls,  and  must  be  intended  to 
recall,  not  only  the  point  fixed,  but  the  tardiness,  the 
excessive  tardiness,  of  the  narrator  in  reaching  that 
point.  We  may  illustrate  this  also  by  an  appropriate 
parallel.  In  R.  L.  Stevenson's  story  of  The  Wrecker, 
the  subject  proper,  the  dealings  of  the  hero  with  a 
wreck,  emerges  late,  and  is  deferred,  like  the  Theban 
portion  of  the  Tkebaid,  by  episodes  for  which  Steven- 
son, like  Statius,  might  perhaps  have  made  a  defence, 
but  for  which  he,  like  Statius,  admits  that  a  defence 
might  be  required  :  they  contributed,  he  tells  us,  with 
humorous  self-criticism,  to  build  up  "  the  story  of  the 
Wrecker — a  gentleman  whose  appearance  may  be 
presently  expected."  Similarly  Statius,  after  de- 
voting two  large  books  and  more,  in  his  "Story  of 
Thebes,"  to  the  foundation  and  performance  of  the 
Nemean  Games,  informs  us  at  the  beginning  of 
Book  vii,  that  the  delay  of  the  Argive  army  in 
commencing  operations  has  provoked  the  impatience 


1 88  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

of  Jupiter.  It  has  certainly  tried,  if  not  exhausted, 
the  patience  of  the  reader,  a  reflexion  so  obvious  that 
it  cannot  have  escaped  the  author.  He  had  probably- 
received  hints  to  proceed  without  further  delay — 
possibly  from  the  Imperial  critic,  Domitian  himself; 
for  when  a  writer  of  that  age  speaks  of  "Jupiter,"  it 
is  always  legitimate  to  consider  whether  it  is  not  the 
earthly  "  Jupiter  "  whom  he  has  in  his  eye, — but  at 
all  events  from  some  quarter ;  and  he  excuses  him- 
self, like  Stevenson,  by  a  side-stroke  of  self-criticism. 
When  therefore  Statius  is  made  to  speak  of  the  time 
"before  I  brought  the  Greeks,  in  my  poem,  to  the 
rivers  of  Thebes,"  it  is  inevitable  for  us,  if  we  know 
the  poem,  to  subjoin  the  tacit  remark,  "  where,  as 
you  very  well  know,  you  would  have  done  better  to 
bring  them  sooner."  We  shall  see  presently  that 
this  aspect  of  the  matter  is  material,  and  indeed 
vital,  to  the  meaning  of  Dante.  For  the  moment 
we  will  merely  note  that  it  enforces,  with  special 
stringency,  the  true  and  only  possible  interpretation 
of  the  phrase,  as  a  reference,  not  to  the  Thebaid 
generally,  but  to  the  particular  passage,  the  arrival 
at  the  Asopus,  which  Dante  signifies  and  actually 
cites. 

The  question  then  arises,  Upon  what  evidence 
does  Dante  build  ?  Manifestly  it  must  be  evidence 
in  the  Thebaid.  Here  perhaps  most  plainly  we  see 
what,  for  any  one  familiar  with  the  poems  of  Statius, 
is  plain  enough  throughout  the  whole  account  which 
Dante  gives  of  him.  Whatever  hint  for  it  Dante 
may  have  found  in  tradition — we  know  nothing  of 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  189 

any  such  hint,  but  it  is  of  course  possible, — the  sub- 
stance of  the  account  is  not  based  on  tradition,  but 
on  the  supposed  evidence  of  the  documents,  the 
poems  of  Statins  themselves.  The  repeated  and 
specific  references  to  the  words  of  Statius  prove 
this ;  and  most  of  all,  perhaps,  this  particular  refer- 
ence. The  statement  of  Dante  here  is  such  as  could 
not,  from  its  nature,  be  made  otherwise  than  upon 
the  evidence,  real  or  supposed,  of  the  Thebaid. 

Nor  would  any  evidence  be  sufficient,  which  did 
not  at  all  events  include  an  inference  from  the  par- 
ticular passage  to  which  Dante  directs  us.  It  would 
not  be  enough,  even  if  it  were  true,  that  in  the  sub- 
sequent half  of  the  poem  there  were  traces  of  Christian 
knowledge  or  sentiment,  such  as  do  not  appear  in  the 
preceding  half.  I  have  actually  tried  this  track,  but 
with  no  success;  nor  did  I  enter  it  with  much  hope, 
because,  after  all,  no  such  collective  inference  would 
really  satisfy  the  language  of  Dante.  He  states 
precisely,  that  the  baptism  of  Statius  preceded  the 
composition  of  a  certain  passage,  definitely  marked 
by  reference  to  the  wording  of  its  first  sentence. 
Manifestly,  if  we  consider,  nothing  could  prove  this, 
except  the  assurance  of  Statius  given  in  the  passage 
itself.  Dante  supposed,  he  must  have  supposed,  that 
in  this  place  Statius  alludes  to  his  baptism  ;  that  he 
here  uses  language  which,  coming  from  a  person 
known  to  have  been  a  Christian  not  very  long  after- 
wards (that  is  to  say,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
Achilleid),  implies  that  he  had  received  the  initiatory 
rite.  And  he  must  also  have  supposed  that,  to  the 
readers  whom  he  contemplated,  the  grounds  for  this 


190  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

supposition  were  either  known  or  sufficiently  indicated 
by  himself.  Nothing  short  of  this,  it  seems,  could 
account  for  his  statement  at  all.  It  by  no  means 
follows  that  the  indications  are  sufficient  for  us.  But 
the  thing  must  be  there;  and  it  is  worth  our  while, 
if  only  as  matter  of  curiosity,  to  look  for  it. 

And  our  first  step  should  be,  to  examine  minutely 
the  context  of  the  statement  in  Dante,  on  the  chance 
that  the  exact  sense  of  it,  or  some  part  of  it,  may 
have  escaped  us.  The  agreement,  says  Statius, 
between  the  Christian  preachers  and  the  prophetic 
language  of  Virgil  in  the  Fourth  Eclogue,  so  far 
impressed  him  that  he  began  to  visit  them.  The 
rest,  his  conversion,  was  the  work  of  their  virtues : 

"  They  then  became  so  holy  in  my  sight,  that, 
when  Domitian  persecuted  them,  their  wailings  were 
not  without  tears  of  mine.  And  while  by  me  yon 
world  was  trod,  I  succoured  them,  and  their  righteous 
lives  made  me  despise  all  other  sects;  and  ere  in  my 
poem  I  had  brought  the  Greeks  to  Thebes'  rivers, 
I  received  baptism  ;  but  through  fear  I  was  a  secret 
Christian,  long  time  pretending  paganism." 

"Vennermi  poi  parendo  tanto  santi, 
che,  quando  Domizian  li  perseguette 
senza  mio  lagrimar  non  fur  lor  pianti. 

"  E  mentre  che  di  la  per  me  si  stette, 
io  li  sovvenni,  e  lor  dritti  costumi 
fer  dispregiare  a  me  tutte  altre  sette; 

"  e  pria  ch'  io  conducessi  i  Greci  a'  fiumi 
di  Tebe  poetando,  ebb'  io  battesmo ; 
ma  per  paura  chiuso  Cristian  fu'  mi, 

"lungamente  mostrando  paganesmo." 

Purg.  XXII  82 — 91. 


Dante  on  the  Baptis'tn  of  Statins  191 

So  the  passage  is  presented  in  the  faithful  prose 
of  the  Temple  Classics.  And  here  is  a  portion  of  it, 
the  piece  with  which  we  are  specially  concerned,  in 
the  version,  even  more  close,  of  Mr  A.  J.  Butler : 
"And  whilst  there  was  a  station  for  me  in  that 
world,  I  aided  them,  and  their  upright  fashions  made 
me  hold  all  other  sects  of  small  price.  And  before 
I  brought  the  Greeks  to  the  rivers  of  Thebes  in  my 
poem  had  I  baptism,  but  through  fear  "  etc. 

Now  both  versions  assume,  and  it  appears  to  be 
universally  assumed,  that  in  the  words  mentre  che  di 
la  per  me  si  stette,  that  is,  literally,  ivhile  I  stood  (or 
stayed)  on  the  other  side,  the  description  di  la,  on  the 
other  side,  means  "the  other  side  of  the  earth,"  the 
world  of  living  men,  as  regarded  from  the  Mount 
of  Purgatory,  situated,  according  to  Dante,  at  the 
Antipodes  ;  so  that  "  while  I  stayed  on  the  other 
side"  means  "while  I  lived"  or  "before  my  death." 
The  assumption  is  natural,  for  di  la  is  not  only  so 
used  in  the  Pu7'gatorio  constantly,  but  occurs  twice, 
with  that  sense,  in  speeches  of  Statius. 

Nevertheless  there  is  more  than  one  reason  for 
doubting  whether  that  sense  is  admissible  here. 
The  first  reason  is  a  point  of  language,  a  doubt 
whether,  in  the  Italian  of  Dante,  per  me  si  stette, 
or  per  me  with  any  impersonal  verb,  could  be 
applied,  as  the  current  interpretation  here  assumes, 
to  a  fact  or  circumstance,  in  which  the  speaker  of 
the  per  me  was  purely  passive,  in  which  he  exercised 
neither  will  nor  even  permission.  Such  a  fact — if 
we  disregard  the  irrelevant  case  of  suicide — is  the 


192  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

standing  or  staying  of  a  man  in  this  life.  He  stays 
while  he  is  left,  and  goes  when  he  is  taken.  How 
then  can  it  be  said  that  the  staying  happens  "by" 
or  rather  "along  of"  him  .-*  In  Latin,  at  all  events, 
such  a  use  would  seem  to  be  impossible :  per  me 
stabatur,  per  me  statum  est,  must  imply  that  the 
speaker  was  at  least  permissive,  not  passive,  in  the 
matter.  In  both  the  versions  above  cited  will  be 
noticed  a  desire  to  modify  the  language  in  this 
respect :  in  "while  by  me  yon  world  was  trod''  the 
sense  of  stette  is  a  little  forced,  and  in  "  whilst  there 
was  a  station yb/'  me  in  that  world"  we  might  demur 
to  the  rendering  of  per.  This  scruple  can  perhaps 
be  removed  by  illustrations  from  Dante  or  else- 
where. Meanwhile  it  may  count  with  graver  and 
more  conclusive  objections,  which  are  founded  upon 
the  whole  context. 

For  let  us  suppose  that  mentre  eke  di  la  per  me 
si  stette  may,  so  far  as  the  words  go,  mean  "  while 
I  lived,"  "before  I  died."  Statius  is  then  made  to 
say  this  :  "  Before  I  died,  I  had  conceived,  from  the 
good  morals  of  the  Christians,  a  disesteem  for  all 
opinions  except  theirs.  And  before  my  Thebaid 
had  reached  [a  certain  place  in  Book  vii],  I  had 
joined  the  Christian  Church."  Is  it  possible  that 
the  story  should  be  told  so  preposterously  and  per- 
versely, with  such  disregard  of  progress  and  order  ? 
If  Statius  actually  sought  baptism,  in  spite  of  his 
fears,  before  he  wrote  the  seventh  book  of  the 
Thebaid' s  twelve,  and  at  a  time  which,  upon  the 
evidence   of    the    Thebaid  itself,    must    have   been 


Dante  07i  the  Baptism  of  Statius  193 

years,  six  years  and  more,  before  his  death,  what 
need  is  there  to  tell  us,  as  a  preliminary  to  this 
information,  that,  all  those  years  after  his  baptism, 
he  had  come  so  far  on  the  road  to  Christianity  as 
to  conceive  a  distaste  for  paganism  ?  Can  any  other 
passage  be  produced,  in  which  Dante  is  guilty  of  such 
an  inversion  ? 

And  further,  the  context  not  only  excludes  the 
interpretation  of  "while  I  stayed  on  the  other  side" 
by  "while  I  lived,"  but  imposes  another  interpreta- 
tion— namely,  "while  I  abstained  from  joining  the 
Church  and  receiving  baptism."  Let  us  illustrate 
the  matter  by  an  example  from  familiar  English. 
The  phrase  "while  he  remained  at  the  bar"  is  in 
itself  ambiguous.  But  it  is  not  ambiguous  in  the 
following:  "While  he  remained  at  the  bar,  he  had 
become  weary  of  the  excessive  labour,  and  before 
1908  he  accepted  a  place  on  the  Bench."  Nor  again 
in  the  following :  "  While  he  remained  at  the  bar, 
his  head  had  begun  to  feel  very  uncomfortable,  and 
before  ten  o'clock  he  left  the  hotel  and  went  to  bed." 
In  each  case  the  commencement  is  interpreted  by 
the  conclusion.  Exactly  similar  is  the  relation  of 
the  clauses  in  Dante  :  "While  I  stayed  on  the  other 
side,  I  had  come  to  dislike  paganism ;  and  before  [a 
given  date]  I  was  baptised  and  entered  the  Christian 
Church.''  The  last  words  relate  to  the  words  before, 
and  require  them  to  mean  "  before  I  entered  the 
Church." 

The  question  then   arises,   by  what   thought  or 
metaphor   Dante    is   led   to   describe   the   delay  or 

V.  L.  E.  13 


194  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

hesitation  of  the  convert,  his  abstention  from  the 
decisive  step  of  receiving  initiation,  as  a  staying 
"  on  the  other  side."  On  the  other  side  of  what  ? 
The  context  again  furnishes  the  answer,  about  which 
indeed  we  could  hardly  doubt,  even  if  we  were  left 
to  conjecture.  The  comparison  of  baptism  to  a  river 
is,  for  obvious  reasons,  so  well  established  and 
familiar,  that  in  this  connexion  it  would  be  almost 
sufficiently  signified  by  "on  the  other  side"  itself. 
But  Dante  explicitly  gives  us  the  "river" — 

"  e  pria  ch'  io  conducessi  i  Greci  a'  fiumi 
di  Tebe  poetando,  ebb'  io  battesmo : " 

"  And  before,  as  a  poet,  I  brought  the  Greeks  to  the 
rivers  of  Thebes,  I  had  myself  received  baptism." 
The  emphasis  on  of  Thebes,  given  by  the  position 
of  the  words  in  the  verse,  and  on  myself  given  by 
the  inversion  "  ebb'  io,"  imply  an  antithesis  or  com- 
parison between  Statius  and  the  Greeks  of  the  poem, 
between  the  "  rivers  "  to  which  they  came  and  that 
to  which  he  came,  the  7'iver,  according  to  the  familiar 
figure,  of  baptism.  This  river  he  long  hesitated  to 
pass  ;  he  "  halted  on  the  other  side,"  as  a  man  who 
was  no  hero  might,  when  to  be  baptised  was  to  be 
in  danger  of  death, — though,  as  he  tells  us,  the  delay 
cost  him  centuries  of  expiation  upon  the  purgatorial 
mountain.  But  before  he  brought  his  Argives  to  the 
Asopus,  he  himself  had  made  his  passage. 

Now  if  this  be  the  true  meaning  of  Dante's  words, 
plainly  then  it  is,  or  should  be,  no  hard  matter  to 
discover,   in   the  place  to  which   he  refers  us,  the 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  195 

grounds  of  his  inference,  or,  at  all  events,  the  in- 
terpretation which  he  adopted.  He  has  told  us 
implicitly  what  we  are  to  look  for,  precisely  as  he 
implies,  in  the  same  canto,  where  we  are  to  go  for 
the  proof  that  Statius  did  in  fact  hold  the  opinions 
of  a  Christian.  We  are  to  find,  he  says,  in  the 
immediate  context  of  the  words  Boeotaque  ventuni 
flumina,  "they  arrived  at  the  Boeotian  rivers,''  an 
illustration  of  Statius'  own  position  in  reference  to 
Christianity,  so  exact  that  we  must  suppose  it  in- 
tentional, and  such  as  to  imply  that,  before  composing 
it,  he  had  taken  the  decisive  step  and  had  undergone 
the  initiatory  rite. 

Let  us  then  read  on  from  the  words  marked  : 
"Now  see  them  come  to  the  banks  of  Asopus,  to 
the  rivers  of  Boeotia."  There  was  a  halt  there. 
The  unfriendly  stream,  we  are  told,  then  chanced 
to  be  swollen  by  a  formidable  flood,  and  the  Argive 
horsemen  hesitated  to  pass. 

"  Then  the  daring  Hippomedon  forced  down  the 
bank  his  shrinking  steed,  a  great  piece  of  earth  roll- 
ing beneath  them,  and  dashing  on  to  the  mid  water, 
called,  as  he  hung  between  bridle  and  shield,  to  those 
behind  :  '  Gallants,  come  on  !  As  here  I  show  you 
the  way,  so  will  I  at  the  wall,  and  will  break  you  a 
passage  through  the  rampart  of  Thebes.'  Then 
plunged  they  all  into  the  river,  ashamed  to  be  not  the 
first.  So,  when  a  herdsman  would  drive  his  herd 
through  a  stream  they  do  not  know,  the  beasts 
dismayed  will  hesitate.  How  far  the  other  side, 
how  broad  is  the  terror  between  !     So  doubt  they 

13—2 


196  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

all.  But  when  a  leading  bull  goes  in,  when  he 
has  made  a  ford,  then  gentler  seems  the  flood,  the 
leaps  not  difficult,  and  the  banks  less  distant  than 
before!' 

"  The  beasts  dismayed  will  hesitate  "  :  stat  triste 
pecus.  Dante,  in  his  "per  me  si  stette,''  is  transcrib- 
ing the  actual  word  of  the  Latin  poet,  and  marks, 
beyond  mistake,  the  analogy  which  he  read  in  the 
whole  incident,  and  especially  in  the  concluding 
simile.  Nor  would  this  reading  be  unreasonable, 
if  we  could  believe,  as  Dante  believed  and  implies 
in  the  same  canto,  that  the  Christianity  of  Statins, 
and  the  fact  that  he  was  shamed  into  Christianity 
by  admiration  of  the  martyrs,  is  demonstrable  from 
the  exordium  of  the  Achilleid.  On  this  supposition, 
the  suspicion  of  an  autobiographical  reference  in  the 
passing  of  the  Asopus  would  be  legitimate,  from  the 
aptness  of  the  parallel,  even  if  there  were  no  external 
indication  that  the  Argive  soldiery  here  stand,  by 
allegory,  for  the  soldiery  of  Christ. 

But  such  an  indication  there  is  ;  or  at  least  Dante, 
with  his  general  views,  would  be  likely  to  think  so. 
The  arrival  at  the  Asopus  is  preceded  by  a  hasty  and 
violent  march  upon  Boeotia — the  poet  being  appa- 
rently determined  to  show  that  he  has  done  with 
digressing,  and  means  to  quicken  the  pace.  The 
movement  excites  a  desperate  protest  from  the 
oracles  of  the  gods,  which  are  against  the  Argive 
enterprise, — although,  let  us  observe,  it  is  promoted 
and  stimulated  by  Jove.  The  oracles  then  protest, 
not  articulately,  but  by  desperate  disorder;  and  the 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statius  197 

chief  of  them  all,  the  oracle  of  Delphi,  protests  by 
silence,  by  ceasing  to  speak — 

"tunc  et  Apollineae  tacuere  oracula  Cirrhae." 

But  the  failure  of  the  oracles,  and  in  particular  the 
silence  of  Delphi,  was  universally  held  to  have  been 
among  the  signs  by  which  decadent  paganism  pro- 
tested, and  protested  in  vain,  against  the  victory  of 
Christ  and  of  Christianity.  Milton  has  made  the 
thought  familiar  to  Englishmen  in  his  Hymn  on  the 
Nativity — "The  oracles  are  dumb;...  Apollo  from  his 
shrine  can  now  no  more  divine." 

With  these  ideas,  it  is  at  least  not  unnatural  to 
see  a  symbol  of  the  Christian  army  in  an  army  which 
is  thwarted  by  the  silence  of  Delphi,  and  urged  to 
advance  by  that  "Jove"  whose  name  Dante  actually 
uses  as  a  synonym  for  the  crucified  God. 

It  should  however  be  observed,  that  Dante  draws 
a  distinction  between  his  reading  of  this  place  in  the 
Thebaid  and  his  preceding  inferences  from  the  Achil- 
leid,  from  the  definitely  Christian  language  (as  Dante 
held  it  to  be)  which  Statius  there  uses,  and  from  his 
supposed  reference  to  the  Messianic  prophecy  of 
Virgil.  The  passage  of  Dante  now  before  us,  the 
passage  which  cites  for  authority  the  fording  of  the 
Asopus,  is  introduced  by  these  words  :  "  That  thou 
mayst  better  see  that  which  I  outline,"  says  Statius  to 
Virgil,  ''  I  will  stretch  my  hand  to  put  in  the  colours'' — 
"a  colorar  distender6  la  mano." 

It  is  but  fair  to  suppose  that  this  distinction  is  signi- 
ficant.     Dante  means  that  his  interpretation  of  the 


198  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

Thebaid  is  an  imaginative  interpretation,  which  might 
be  ventured  without  indiscretion,  upon  the  assump- 
tion that  the  "outline"  of  the  history,  the  main  fact 
of  Statins'  Christianity,  is,  as  he  held  it  to  be,  estab- 
lished. 

So  far  then  for  the  general  meaning  and  main 
purpose  of  the  connexion  which  Dante  makes,  be- 
tween the  fording  of  the  Asopus  and  the  baptism  of 
the  poet  who  describes  it.  But  we  have  by  no  means 
yet  exhausted  the  significance,  for  Dante,  of  the  words 
"  mentre  che  di  la  per  me  si  stette,"  while  I  stayed 
on  the  other  side.  We  have  already  observed  that 
the  arrival  at  the  Theban  river  is,  merely  from  a 
literary  point  of  view  and  in  its  relation  to  the  story, 
the  end  of  a  long,  a  too  long,  halting  on  the  part  of 
Statius.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  history  of  his 
opinions  and  his  conduct  as  a  man,  it  is  certain  and 
obvious  that,  as  composer  of  the  Thebaid,  he  comes 
too  late  to  the  Theban  river,  and  stays  too  long  on 
the  wrong  side  of  it.  No  one,  as  we  said,  who  is 
familiar  with  the  Thebaid,  could  read  the  words  of 
Dante,  without  perceiving  this  personal  application 
to  the  Latin  poet's  "  conduct"  of  his  story. 

And  since  this  is  so,  since  the  "  staying "  of 
Statius  is  represented  by  Dante  as  doubly  charac- 
teristic, both  of  the  composer  and  of  the  man,  and 
since  Dante  is  at  the  pains  to  mark  this  trait  by 
the  very  word  of  Statius  himself,  one  can  hardly 
escape  the  suspicion  that  Dante  supposed  a  special 
and  personal  connexion  between  Statius  and  this 
particular  word — stat. 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  199 

It  is  certain  that  Dante  did  suppose  such  a  con- 
nexion. He  held,  and  clearly  implies,  that  the  name 
of  the  Latin  poet,  or  rather  the  name  by  which  he 
was  commonly  known,  was  not  a  proper  name  but 
a  nickname,  significant,  and  derived  from  stare  in 
the  sense  of  "standing"  or  "staying."  He  implies 
this  necessarily,  when  he  makes  the  Latin  poet  say 
of  himself:  '' Statius  I  am  still  called  by  the  folk  on 
the  other  side  [of  the  world] " — 

'*  Stazio  la  gente  ancor  di  Ik  mi  noma." 

It  is  surely  unnatural,  not  to  say  impossible,  that 
a  man  should  so  speak  of  his  proper  and  only 
name.  With  no  propriety,  with  no  sense,  could  the 
spirit  of  Shakespeare  be  made  to  say:  **  Shakespeai^e 
I  am  still  called."  Why  should  the  name  have 
been  changed,  and  what  other  name  could  have 
been  substituted }  Such  a  way  of  speaking  implies 
that  the  name  in  question  might,  or  even  should, 
have  been  dropped  :  that  there  is  another,  and  this 
other  more  strictly  appropriate.  Just  so  the  author 
of  Middlemarch  might  properly  and  significantly 
say :  "  By  the  living  world  I  am  still  called  George 
Eliot,''  meaning  that  her  literary  reputation  persists, 
and  that,  in  this  connexion,  her  literary  name  is  still 
preferred  to  designations  personally  more  proper. 

And  the  same  thing  is  implied  when  Statius 
speaks  of  a  "more  honourable"  and  "more  durable" 
name  which,  by  a  certain  date,  he  bore.  At  the 
time  of  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  in  a.d.  70,  he 
was,  he  says,  "with  the  name  which  more  lasts  and 


200  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins 

more  honours,  famous  enough."  The  name,  say  the 
expositors  of  Dante,  is  that  of  "poet";  and  this  is 
so  far  true,  that  it  must  be  a  note  or  mark  of  the 
poet  as  such.  But  whether  the  mere  word  poet  could 
properly  be  so  indicated,  one  may  well  doubt ;  and 
when  we  compare  the  subsequent  and  more  explicit 
reference  to  the  name  "Statins,"  we  must  conclude 
that  this,  and  not  merely  "poet,"  is  the  name  by 
which  he  was  "  famous  enough."  This  last  expres- 
sion, famoso  assai  is  noticeable,  since  it  suggests  at 
once,  by  its  colour,  that  the  name  in  question  was 
not  an  unqualified  compliment,  but  was  at  least 
susceptible  of  an  interpretation  not  laudatory.  And 
this  accords  well  with  the  obvious  fact  that  Dante, 
though  he  admired  Statins,  did  not  over-rate  him  : 
"Without  the  Aeneid','  he  makes  Statins  say,  "  I 
should  not  have  weighed  a  drachm."  This  is  a 
strong,  perhaps  too  strong,  acknowledgement  of  the 
later  poet's  imitative  dependence ;  and  we  might 
presume  therefore,  and  we  have  seen,  that  Dante 
was  not  blind  to  what  else  may  be  alleged  against 
him,  and  in  particular  to  his  longueurs,  the  marked 
tendency  of  the  Thebaid,  especially  in  the  earlier 
part,  to  be  "halting"  and  dilatory.  He  connected 
this  quality,  we  have  seen,  with  the  word  stare,  and 
would  naturally  connect  with  it  the  name  Statitis, 
on  the  assumption  that  this  was  a  literary  nick- 
name. 

But  what  in  the  world,  it  may  be  asked,  should 
lead  Dante,  or  those  whom  he  followed,  to  suppose 
that  Statins  was  in  fact  such  a  name, — that  it  was 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  201 

not  the  poet's  proper  name  ?  Let  us  not  however 
be  impatient.  Like  every  other  part  of  the  theory 
respecting  Statius  and  his  history,  which  the  scholars 
of  the  thirteenth  century  seem  to  have  extracted 
from  their  data,  this  conjecture  about  his  name, 
though  not  true,  was  by  no  means  without  plausible 
grounds.  It  is  even  true,  in  a  certain  way,  that 
"  Statius  "  was  not  the  name  of  the  poet,  not  in  that 
sense  which  might  most  readily  be  supposed.  If 
the  present  reader  were  only  a  little  less  learned 
than  he  doubtless  is,  one  might  easily  prove  this 
point.  The  name  Statius  has  the  form  and  appear- 
ance of  a  Roman  family-name,  a  name  like  Vergilius, 
Horatius,  Proper  tins,  Terentius,  Livitts.  We  our- 
selves at  this  day,  if  we  did  not  know  the  contrary, 
should  certainly  assume  that  Statists  was  such  a  name, 
the  poet's  family-name.  It  is  even  not  unlikely  that 
some  persons  who  hear  it  do  so  suppose.  Yet  in 
fact,  we  know,  this  is  not  the  case.  The  poet's 
family-name  was  Papinitis  ;  and  his  full  name,  P. 
Papini2is  Statizis,  has  the  unusual  appearance  of 
containing  two  family-names,  and  no  personal  name, 
or  cognomen,  at  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Statius 
was,  it  seems,  one  of  the  very  few  names  of  this 
form  (names  in  -ius),  which  were  used,  even  from 
early  times  of  Roman  history,  in  place  of  a  cognomen. 
But  of  this  the  scholars  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
without  disgrace,  might  not  be  aware.  It  was  not, 
then,  by  any  means  an  absurd  conjecture,  that  the 
name  Statius  was  a  fiction,  an  artist-name  or  poet- 
name    of    the    sort    familiar    to    Italians,    which    in 


202  Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statius 

common    currency   had   replaced   the  proper  name 
Papinius. 

As  for  the  significance  of  the  name,  if  it  were 
fictitious  and  therefore  significant,  about  this  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  The  author  of  the  Thebaid 
himself,  in  his  brief  epilogue,  dwells  upon  the  enor- 
mous time  over  which  the  production  had  extended 
— twelve  books  in  twelve  years — the  consequence 
of  his  slow  and  scrupulous  habit  of  work.  He 
himself  there  betrays  some  doubt  whether  this 
laborious  and  dilatory  method  had  been  altogether 
favourable  to  his  art.  When  we  take  with  this 
the  fact  that  the  story  so  told  is  marked,  more 
deeply  perhaps  than  any  composition  of  equal  fame, 
with  the  fault  of  suspensory  interludes  and  deferred 
progression,  it  is  obvious  to  suppose  that  the  name 
Statius,  if  it  were  bestowed  upon  him  for  his  literary 
quality,  referred  to  his  stationes  or  halts.  It  marked 
the  impatience  with  which  the  eager  and  admiring 
audiences  of  Papinius  attended  upon  the  too  leisurely 
progress  of  their  favourite  epic.  The  eagerness  of 
the  Roman  audiences  is  noticed  by  Dante,  who  cites 
for  it,  by  a  verbal  allusion  \  the  solitary  passage 
where  Statius  is  mentioned  by  Juvenal, — the  only 
sound  material  for  the  life  of  Statius,  except  the 
Thebaid  and  Achilleid,  which  the  thirteenth  century 
would  appear  to  have  possessed.  Even  the  impati- 
ence might  not  unfairly  be  inferred  from  the  same 
passage,  since  we  are  told  by  Juvenal  that  Roman 

^  Purg.  XXI  88,  dolce . .  .vocale  spirto,  compared  with  Juvenal 
vii  82  vocem  iucundam. 


Dante  on  the  Baptism  of  Statins  203 

society  "ran"  to  the  delights  of  the  Thebaid,  "when 
Statins  had  promised  a  day."  With  all  this,  if  it 
were  once  assumed  that  the  name  of  Statins  or 
"Stayer"  was  a  literary  nickname,  bestowed  upon 
the  poet  in  the  quizzical  familiarity  of  fondness,  no 
one  could  doubt  what  it  meant ;  and  this  obvious 
interpretation  is  what  Dante  has  in  view  when  he 
contrasts  the  time,  during  which  Statius  stood, 
stayed,  or  halted,  with  the  moment  when,  at  last, 
he  brouofht  his  Greeks  to  the  river  of  Thebes.  If 
the  name  of  Stayer,  and  the  disposition  to  be  hesi- 
tating and  dilatory,  were  also  appropriate,  as  Dante 
implies,  to  the  moral  character  of  a  man  who,  after 
he  had  become  in  opinions  a  Christian,  abstained 
long,  for  want  of  courage,  from  the  reception  of 
baptism,  and  who  deferred  the  actual  confession 
of  his  new  religion  until  death  made  confession 
impossible, — then  all  the  more  justifiable  and  the 
more  interesting  was  it  to  insist  upon  the  history 
of  the  name,  and  to  make  it,  as  Dante  does  in  fact 
make  it,  the  main  pivot  of  the  poet's  autobio- 
graphy. 


THE    BIRTH    OF  VIRGIL 

(Dante,  Inferno  i  70) 

Nacqui  sub  Julio,  ancor  che  fosse  tardi, 
e  vissi  a  Roma  sotto  '1  buono  Augusto, 
al  tempo  degli  Dei  falsi  e  bugiardi. 

"  I  WAS  born  tinder  Julius,  though  it  was  late  ; 
and  Hved  at  Rome  under  the  good  Augustus,  at 
the  time  of  the  false  and  lying  gods." — With  these 
words  the  shade  of  the  great  Mantuan  poet,  the 
founder  of  the  Roman  Imperial  literature,  introduces 
himself  to  Dante  at  the  outset  of  his  journey  through 
Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise,  as  the  guide  destined 
to  accompany  and  direct  him  through  so  much  of 
his  journey  as  was  terrestrial,  and  lay  within  or  upon 
this  earth.  For  the  first  two  stages,  for  the  passage 
through  the  Underworld,  and  for  the  ascent  of  the 
Mount  of  Purgatory  at  the  Antipodes,  Virgil,  as 
he  announces,  will  be  a  sufficient  and  authorised 
director;  but  for  Heaven  another  and  worthier  guide 
will  be  provided  ;  "  for  that  Emperor,  who  reigns 
above,  because  I  was  rebellious  to  His  law,  wills 
not  that  entrance  into  His  city  should  be  made  by 
means  of  me." 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  205 

The  symbolic  purpose  of  this  distinction  between 
the  present  and  the  promised  guide,  is  transparent 
and  universally  recognised  ;  and  equally  transparent 
is  the  propriety,  from  Dante's  point  of  view,  of  the 
function  assigned  to  Virgil.  Truth  is  attained  partly 
by  human  intelligence,  but  the  highest  truth  only 
by  divine  grace  and  revelation.  Virgil,  the  inheritor 
and  consummator  of  the  intellectual  efforts  which 
preceded  the  Christian  revelation — Virgil,  who  gave 
a  final  form  and  a  new  beginning  to  that  language 
and  poetry  of  the  Roman  Empire  which  was  for 
Dante  the  eternal  language  and  poetry  of  the 
world — Virgil,  who  forefelt,  indeed,  and  foreshowed 
(as  Dante  believed)  the  coming  of  Christ,  yet  was 
himself  the  first  and  most  powerful  preacher  not  of 
Christ  but  of  Anti-Christ,  the  first  to  salute  effectively 
that  new  deity  of  the  Roman  Caesar  which,  embodied 
in  the  successors  of  Julius  and  Augustus,  fought 
successfully  for  three  centuries  against  the  accession 
of  the  Messiah  to  His  rightful  sovereignty  upon 
earth — Virgil,  both  by  his  achievements  and  his 
limits,  represented  exactly,  for  Dante,  the  culmi- 
nation and  the  defects  of  Man  not  yet  enlightened 
by  the  self-revelation  of  God. 

The  brief  biographical  particulars  by  which 
Virgil  is  made  to  disclose  his  identity,  have,  in  all 
respects  but  one,  that  close  and  precise  relevance 
to  the  purpose,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  remark- 
able feature  of  Dante's  style  and  way  of  thinking. 
We  are  told,  first,  that  he  was  an  Italian,  a  full- 
born  native  of  the  Imperial  state  ;  secondly,  that  he 


2o6  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

celebrated  the  "coming  of  Aeneas,"  that  is  to  say, 
the  foundation  of  Rome,  and  more  particularly,  the 
foundation  of  Rome  as  a  spiritual  state,  the  seat 
prepared  for  the  Vicar  of  Christ.  This  significance 
of  Aeneas'  enterprise,  though  not  here  stated  by 
Virgil,  is  expressly  and  fully  set  forth  by  Dante  in 
the  following  discourse  between  the  two  poets ;  and 
we  are  correctly  referred  for  it  to  the  Sixth  Aeneid 
in  particular,  the  account  of  Aeneas'  journey  to  the 
Underworld,  and  the  revelations  there  made  to  him, 
"the  causes  of  his  victory  and  of  the  Papal  Mantle\" 
We  are  thus  shown  precisely  in  what  respect  the 
Divina  Commedia  depends  historically  and  poetically 
upon  the  Aeneid,  and  why  Virgil,  and  no  other, 
should  hold  in  the  later  poem,  in  the  Aeneid  of  a 
better  Rome,  that  large  but  limited  place  which  he 
actually  does.  Thirdly,  we  are  told  that  the  life  of 
Virgil  coincided  with  "  the  time  of  the  false  and 
lying  gods,"  that  is  to  say,  with  the  establishment 
under  Augustus  of  the  Imperial  pretensions  to  deity. 
And  lastly^  Virgil  informs  us  that  he  was  himself  a 
rebel  against  the  true  and  heavenly  "Emperor"; 
that  is  to  say,  he  recognized,  acclaimed,  and  promoted 
those  false  pretensions  of  deified  men,  by  which  the 
spiritual  Governor  of  the  World,  the  veritable  God- 
Man,  and  his  appointed  representatives,  the  Pontiffs, 
were  unlawfully  debarred  from  their  terrestrial  throne. 
All  this  is  perfectly  true  and  exactly  appropriate ; 
the  biographical    statement  could    not   possibly  be 

*  Inf.  II  13 — 27. 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  207 

improved,  with  regard  to  its  intention,  by  any 
omission  or  addition  whatsoever. 

But  with  these  statements  Dante,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  his  expositors  from  earliest  to  latest,  combines 
one  assertion  which,  taken  in  the  prima  facie  sense, 
is  not  only  false,  but  would,  if  it  were  true,  destroy 
the  very  basis  of  all  the  rest.  "  I  was  born,"  says 
Virgil,  ''undiQr  Ju litis,  although  it  was  late,"  "Nacqui 
sub  Julio,  ancor  che  fosse  tardi."  This  is  held,  not 
unnaturally,  if  we  take  the  sentence  alone,  to  mean 
that  Virgil  was  born  when  Julius  Caesar  was  monarch 
(48-44  B.C.),  but  very  near  the  end  of  his  life  and 
reign,  that  is  to  say,  in  or  not  earlier  than  the  year 
45  B.C. 

Now  in  the  first  place,  this  date  is  enormously 
wrong,  too  late  by  twenty-five  years  or  something 
near  a  generation,  the  true  date  being  70  b.c.  And 
further,  if  the  alleged  date  were  right,  the  rest  of 
the  biography,  though  it  might  be  in  some  sort  true, 
manifestly  could  not  bear  the  significance  which 
Dante  here  and  elsewhere  assigns  to  it.  On  both 
grounds,  error  and  incongruity,  the  statement  would 
be  surprising  if  found  in  Dante  anywhere,  and  is 
especially  surprising  in  this  place. 

On  the  mere  question  of  error,  the  probability 
or  improbability  that  Dante  should  be  wrong  by 
twenty-five  years  respecting  one  of  the  chief  dates 
in  the  first  century  before  Christ,  we  need  not  dwell 
at  any  length.  Among  his  expositors,  one  of  the 
most  positive  in  pronouncing  the  error,  merely  as 
an  error,   impossible,  is   one  of  the  nearest  to   the 


2o8  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

poet's  own  time,  and  the  best  qualified,  so  far,  to 
estimate  his  general  equipment.  Nor  is  it  easy  to 
refute  Benvenuto  upon  this  point.  The  age  which 
witnessed  the  establishment  of  the  Roman  Empire 
was  more  interesting  to  Dante  than  any  except  (if 
we  should  except)  his  own.  He  possessed,  and 
claims  and  proves  himself  to  have  deeply  studied, 
books  which  gave  a  general  outline  of  that  age, 
sufficient  to  exclude  utterly  a  statement  so  absurd 
as  that  the  birth  of  Virgil  nearly  coincided  with  the 
death  of  Julius  Caesar.  Nor,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
has  any  error  of  his,  comparable  in  matter  and 
gravity,  ever  been  cited  by  way  of  illustration.  It 
would  require  us,  for  instance,  to  suppose  that 
Dante  had  not  got  the  faintest  notion,  even  at 
second-hand,  of  the  contents  and  historical  bearing 
of  Virgil's  Fifth  Eclogue.  The  supposition  is  perhaps 
not  disprovable  by  chapter  and  verse,  but  few  readers 
of  Dante  will  venture  to  call  it  likely.  And  even  if 
we  assume  the  possibility  of  the  error,  there  would 
still  remain  the  incongruity,  the  irrelevance,  and 
worse  than  irrelevance,  of  the  statement  in  this 
particular  place.  The  whole  account  of  Virgil  here 
given  comes  briefly  to  this,  that  he  was  the  originator, 
the  founder,  of  Roman  Imperial  literature,  the  leader 
in  the  production  of  poetry  framed  and  governed  by 
the  conception  of  the  Roman  Empire  as  a  sacred 
world-state, — the  first  of  the  Augustans.  This  is 
fact ;  and  all  that  Dante  here  says  of  Virgil,  and 
the  whole  propriety  of  the  place  assigned  to  Virgil 
in  the  Divina   Coinmedia,   depends  upon  the  fact. 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  209 

"  Art  thou  then  that  Virgil,  and  thdii  fountain  which 
pours  abroad  so  rich  a  stream  of  speech  ?  O  glory 
and  light  of  other  poets  !  — "  Such  is  the  salutation 
with  which  Dante,  blushing  with  humility  and  delight, 
receives  the  Great  Leader's  description  of  his  career. 
What  is  signified  by  these  figures  o{  fountain  and 
light  is  plain  enough  here  in  their  context,  and  is 
made  still  plainer  in  the  Fourth  Canto.  There 
we  see  Virgil  (and  Dante  with  him)  rejoining  his 
compeers,  the  group  of  Roman  and  Imperial  poets 
with  whom,  in  the  Limbo  of  the  Underworld,  is  his 
eternal  abode.  Homer  is  included  in  the  group,  to 
represent  the  preparatory  work  of  Greece ;  Dante 
himself  is  adopted  into  it,  to  represent  heirs  and 
successors.  The  rest  are  the  Augustan  poets  in 
the  large  and  political  meaning  of  the  word,  the 
Latin  poets  of  the  Empire — arranged,  we  may  note, 
correctly  in  order  of  date — Horace,  Ovid,  and  Lucan. 
Approaching  these,  Virgil  is  none  the  less  saluted 
as  the  highest  Poet  {Taltissimo  poet  ay.  He  is  the 
chief,  the  leader,  the  prince  of  human  language  and 
thought,  as  estimated  by  the  standard  of  a  Christian 
Imperialist,  by  Dante,  a  true  and  loyal  subject  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  All  this  is  intelligible 
and  true,  if  we  assume  the  true  date  of  Virgil  and 
his  work,  its  true  relation  in  time  to  that  cardinal 
change  of  Roman  ideas  and  of  the  Latin  language 
which  bears  the  name  of  Augustus.  It  is  not  true, 
unless  we  assume,  as  the  fact  is,  that  the  decisive 
operation   of  Virgil  preceded  the  whole  Imperialist 

1  Inf.  IV  80. 

V.  L,  E.  14 


2 1  o  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

movement  in  literature,  and  set  the  pattern  of  it ; 
that  all  the  work  of  Ovid,  and  all  the  vitally 
significant  work  of  Horace,  is  subsequent  to  the 
decisive  entrance  of  Virgil  ;  that  all  the  body  of 
Augustan  poetry  is  later  than  the  Bucolics  and 
Georgics,  most  of  it  later  than  the  Aeneid;  that  it  is 
all  in  various  ways  not  only  Augustan  but  Virgilian, 
and  could  not  have  been  what  it  is,  if  Virgil,  first 
and  long  before,  had  not  sounded  his  new  and 
inaugurating  note. 

But  how  is  this  conceivable,  if,  as  Dante  is 
understood  to  say,  Virgil  was  but  just  born  when 
Julius  Caesar  fell,  if  Virgil  was  an  infant  at  the  time 
when  Augustus  achieved  power?  If  this  was  so, 
then  one  of  two  things — either  Virgil,  as  a  poet, 
instead  of  being  the  leader  of  the  Augustan  age, 
must  have  been  one  of  its  latest  products ;  or  else, 
if  the  Augustan  movement  in  thought  and  language 
really  began  with  Virgil,  then  all  the  Augustans 
were  junior  by  a  generation  to  Augustus  himself, 
and  some  of  them,  Ovid  for  instance,  would  be 
junior  by  two  generations. 

Such  is  the  palpable  absurdity,  the  plain  con- 
tradiction, of  which  Dante  is  guilty  at  the  very 
outset  and  foundation  of  his  systematic  poem,  if, 
when  he  made  Virgil  say — 

Nacqui  sub  Julio,  ancor  che  fosse  tardi, 

he  meant  that  the  birth  of  Virgil  preceded  indeed, 
but  barely  preceded,  the  death  of  the  first  Roman 
Emperor.     The  offence  would  be    aggravated,  we 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  2 1 1 

may  remark,  by  the  ostentation  of  exactness.  We 
are  particularly  asked  to  note,  as  if  it  were  not  only 
true  but  specially  important,  that  though  the  birth 
of  the  poet  did  precede  the  death  of  the  sovereign, 
it  was  not  by  much — and  this  although  what  follows 
cannot  be  properly  appreciated,  unless  we  know  and 
realise  that  Virgil,  as  an  adult  and  accomplished 
poet,  was  the  first  who  proclaimed  effectively  to  the 
world  the  deity  of  the  deceased  Julius,  and  asserted 
the  devolution  of  that  sacred  character  to  the  in- 
heritor of  his  name  and  power. 

To  call  this  hypothesis  impossible  would  be 
perhaps  too  much.  In  the  way  of  human  error, 
nothing  perhaps  is  strictly  impossible.  But  more 
improbable  no  hypothesis  could  be,  and  as  a  basis 
of  interpretation  it  is  inadmissible.  Any  supposition 
must  be  preferable,  or  in  default  of  any,  none — the 
abandonment  of  the  verse  as  hopelessly  obscure. 
And  to  try  first  the  positive  and  more  comfortable 
way,  we  should  consider  exhaustively,  what  are  the 
conditions  to  be  satisfied  by  an  interpretation  really 
acceptable. 

Three  things  such  an  interpretation  must  do, 
none  of  which  the  primary  interpretation  does. 
First,  it  must  show  some  significant  and  interesting 
connexion  between  the  birth  of  Virgil  and  the 
person  of  the  first  Emperor  in  his  character  as  a 
pretended  god.  For  this,  and  this  only,  is  the 
aspect  in  which  Julius  is  here  introduced :  he  was 
one,  and  the  first,  of  the  "  false  and  lying  gods." 
We  have   hitherto   assumed,  without  remark,  that 

14 — 2 


212  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

this  description  signifies  the  Roman  Emperors,  and 
especially  the  two  who  are  mentioned,  the  founders 
of  the  cult,  Julius  and  Augustus.  But  as  com- 
mentaries on  Dante  seem  to  be  generally  silent 
about  this,  it  should  perhaps  be  further  explained. 
There  is  nothing,  except  the  Roman  Emperors,  to 
which  the  description,  "  false  and  lying  gods,"  can 
be  here  referred,  if  we  duly  regard  the  context  and 
the  opinions  of  Dante.  He  could  not  so  describe, 
for  instance,  the  gods  of  Roman  mythology,  Jupiter 
and  the  other  Olympians.  Milton  might  have  so 
described  Jupiter,  and  indeed  does  use  very  similar 
language  about  him ;  because  Milton  held  the  view 
that  the  pagan  gods  were  really  devils,  who  deceived 
their  worshippers  into  accepting  them  for  deities. 
But  Dante  held  the  view,  totally  different  and  at 
least  equally  defensible,  that  the  figure  of  Jupiter 
was  an  imperfect  adumbration,  a  human  and  partly 
erroneous  conception,  of  the  true  Deity,  God  himself. 
He  actually  speaks  of  Christ  as  the  crucified  Jove 
{Giove  crocifisso) ;  and  this  way  of  looking  at  the 
matter  is  not  only  well-founded  in  history,  but 
absolutely  necessary  to  Roman  Catholicism  as  appre- 
hended by  Dante.  Moreover,  even  if  Jupiter  and 
the  rest  had  been,  for  Dante,  "lying  gods,"  it  would 
still  be  pointless  to  distinguish  the  time  of  Virgil 
as  the  time  of  those  gods — who  were  worshipped 
for  centuries  after  Virgil  exactly  as  they  had  been 
for  ages  before.  The  worship  of  the  Augustus,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  the  essential  and  characteristic 
novelty  of  Virgil's  time.     To  this  therefore  clearly 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  213 

Dante  here  refers,  borrowing  his  sarcasm  upon 
the  Imperial  pretensions  from  such  authors  as  his 
favourite  Lucan,  who,  in  his  treatment  of  the  subject, 
fluctuates  between  pompous  flattery  and  scathing  con- 
tempt. Lucan's  "dead  gods  of  Rome"  i^Romanorum 
manes  deor^m)  signifies  the  same  thing  as  Dante's 
bugiardi  Dei,  and  puts  it  much  more  strongly. 
Moral  distinctions  between  different  Emperors  may 
of  course  be  admitted — and  Dante  does  admit 
them  by  making  Virgil  call  his  patron  "the  good 
Augustus" — without  prejudice  to  the  condemnation 
of  all  the  Emperors,  in  respect  of  their  claim  to 
deity,  as  liars.  As  a  deity,  then,  a  pretended  deity, 
Julius  is  here  brought  in ;  and  the  first  problem  for 
our  interpretation  is  to  find  some  real  and  interesting 
connexion  between  Julius,  in  this  character,  and  the 
date  of  the  birth  of  Virgil. 

Further,  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  the  words 
"I  was  born  sub  Julio''  must  show  why  "under 
Julius"  should  be  expressed  not  in  Italian  but  in 
Latin.  Latin  is  little  used  by  Dante  in  his  Italian 
poetry,  and  when  it  is,  there  is  commonly  an  obvious 
reason  or  necessity  for  the  licence.  A  Latin  psalm, 
hymn,  prayer  must  of  course  be  indicated  by  its 
proper  words — Te  Deum,  Veni  Creator,  In  exitu 
Israel;  and  a  poetical  quotation,  if  sufficiently  im- 
portant, may  be  similarly  distinguished — manibus 
date  lilia  plenis.  But  no  literary  offence  is  more 
displeasing  to  a  delicate  taste  than  gratuitous  poly- 
glot, an  alien  idiom  inserted  arbitrarily  or  to  save 
the  trouble  of  speaking  correctly.      If,  then,  Dante 


214  1^^^  Birth  of  Virgil 

means  no  more  than  that  Virgil  was  born  in  the 
reign  of  Julius,  why  does  he  not  say  it  in  the 
vernacular  ? 

Lastly,  and  above  all,  we  should  require  some 
real  justification  for  the  strange  and  enigmatical 
words  ancor  che  fosse  tardi,  "  though  it  was  late.'' 
"  I  was  born  sud  Julio,  though  it  was  late,"  is  no 
proper  way  to  express  the  sense  hitherto  assumed, 
"  I  was  born  late  in  the  time  of  Julius."  So  clumsy 
and  pointless  a  periphrasis  is  not  fairly  attributable 
to  the  composer  of  the  Divina  Commedia. 

Let  us,  then,  start  again  without  prejudice ;  and 
since  the  supposition  of  Dante's  ignorance  or  care- 
lessness has  proved  so  unfruitful,  let  us  start  by 
supposing  on  the  contrary  his  complete  knowledge 
and  profound  study  of  the  subject.  For  really  this  is, 
in  the  present  matter,  the  more  natural  supposition. 
All  the  material  which  we  have  for  the  life  of  Virgil, 
with  insignificant  exceptions,  was  extant  in  the  time 
of  Dante,  and  might  naturally  be  open  to  his  inves- 
tigation. What  historical  documents  he  had,  he 
studied,  and  so  did  his  contemporaries,  with  a 
passionate  and  scrupulous  thoroughness  which  no 
age  has  surpassed.  Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  he 
knew  and  had  considered  all  that  there  is  to  know 
about  the  birth  of  Virgil ;  that  the  learned  readers, 
whom  he  desired  to  satisfy\  knew  it  all  too  ;  that 

^  This  should  always  be  carefully  borne  in  mind  in  considering 
a  problem  in  Dante.  He  assumes  learning  in  his  readers,  all  the 
learning  of  his  time,  and  makes  no  attempt  to  meet  the  popular 
intelligence. 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  215 

he  assumes  their  knowledge,  and  might  naturally 
write  whatever  such  readers  could  interpret.  And 
let  us  then  ask,  what  is  known  or  knowable  about 
the  date  of  the  birth  of  Virgil  ? 

Tradition  places  it  in  the  year  684  of  Rome 
(70  B.C.  by  our  era),  in  the  month  of  October,  and 
on  the  Ides  or  15th  day  of  the  month.  From  the 
year  (as  has  been  only  too  completely  ascertained) 
we  can  deduce  nothing  which  throws  any  light  upon 
Dante.  The  year  had  no  special  association  what- 
ever with  the  name  or  the  fortunes  of  the  first 
Emperor.  Let  us,  then,  next  try  the  month.  At 
first  sight  this  looks  equally  unpromising :  the 
Emperor  is  not,  and  never  was,  associated  with 
the  month  of  October.  He  has,  indeed,  a  month 
of  his  own — a  month  which,  bearing  his  name,  has 
eternalised  (so  far  as  it  is  possible  for  man)  the 
memory  of  his  unique  and  almost  superhuman  great- 
ness. But  it  is  the  month  o{  July.  And  it  is  scarcely 
too  much  to  say  that,  if  any  event  is  to  be  associated 
through  its  date  with  the  name  of  Julius,  it  is 
through  the  month  of  Quintilis,  converted  into 
Julius  in  honour  of  his  deity,  that  the  link  of 
association  must  be  sought. 

In  this  embarrassment  we  go  back  to  Dante; 
and  we  may  now  observe,  not  without  hope,  that 
he  appends  to  his  S2ib  Julio  the  exception  or 
qualification,  "although  it  was  late."  What  was 
late  ?  We  have  assumed  hitherto  that  the  subject 
of  this  remark  is  the  birth  of  Virgil.  But  Dante 
does  not  say  so  ;  he  says  that  something  was  late, 


2i6  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

and  so  far  as  the  words  go,  may  perfectly  well 
mean  that  it  was  the  date,  that  is  to  say,  the  month, 
and  not  the  infant  that  was  belated.  And  this,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  certainly  was.  In  70  B.C.  all  the 
true  months — the  months  of  the  natural  year — were, 
and  long  had  been,  in  consequence  of  accumulating 
error,  behind  the  nominal  calendar.  The  accumu- 
lated error  amounted  to  almost  exactly  three  months, 
and  persisted,  as  all  the  world  knows,  until  Julius 
Caesar,  in  46  B.C.,  rectified  it  by  inserting  ninety 
days  (three  months)  in  a  single  year,  and  took 
means  to  prevent  the  error  in  future  ;  whereby  it 
came  to  pass  that  his  name,  as  that  of  a  deity,  was 
given  to  the  month  in  which  he  was  born. 

Consequendy,  a  child  whose  birth  was  recorded, 
in  the  year  684  of  Rome,  as  occurring  in  the  middle 
of  October,  was  really  born  in  the  seventh  (not  the 
tenth)  month  of  the  true  year,  in  the  height  of 
summer,  not  in  the  autumn  ;  and  if  the  birth  had 
been  properly  recorded,  according  to  the  true  calendar 
as  afterwards  established  by  the  Emperor,  would 
have  been  described,  and  should  now  properly  be 
described,  as  born  sub  Julio,  in  the  month  and  under 
the  auspices  of  Julius.  But  the  true  and  proper 
name  of  the  month  was  then  "late,"  "lagging," 
"behindhand,"  by  a  whole  quarter:  Quintilis,  or 
Julius,  which  should  have  been  present,  lay  nominally 
three  months  in  arrear ;  and  Virgil  therefore  figures 
in  history,  though  falsely,  as  born  in  the  middle  of 
October. 

This,  then,   I  venture  to  think,  is  what  Dante 


The  Birth  of  Virgil  217 

means  by  his  terse  but  correct  observation.  Deeply 
interested  as  he  was  in  astronomical  and  calendric 
studies,  and  in  the  history  of  the  age  which  witnessed 
the  foundation  of  Imperial  Rome,  he  might  very 
naturally  have  observed  the  error  respecting  the 
season  and  true  character  of  the  time,  which  pre- 
sumably lies  in  the  statement  that  Virgil  was  born 
on  the  Ides  of  October.  Nor  would  he  think  it 
pedantic  or  irrelevant,  as  perhaps  we  might,  to 
introduce  a  notice  of  this  error,  and  of  the  fact  as 
corrected,  into  his  poetical  biography  of  the  Augustan 
poet.  It  is  irrelevant  only  upon  the  assumption  that 
there  cannot  be  any  real  significance  in  the  true  fact, 
the  birth  of  the  first  Imperial  poet  in  that  portion 
of  the  year  which  was  to  bear  the  name  of  the  first 
Emperor.  But  Dante  of  course  would  not  have 
admitted  this.  As  a  sound  astrologer,  he  would 
have  maintained,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  fact  was, 
or  probably  might  be,  a  sign  of  destiny ;  and  more 
than  a  sign,  an  actual  element  in  the  natural  and 
spiritual  influences  which  contributed  to  mould  the 
nascent  soul  of  the  Imperial  poet  and  prophet,  and 
to  fit  him  for  his  appointed  work  of  revealing  and 
worthily  celebrating  the  evolution  of  the  Roman 
world-state,  from  the  beginning  by  Aeneas  to  the 
new  beginning  by  Julius  and  Augustus, — the  build- 
ing of  Imperial  Rome,  of  a  throne  for  the  Vicar  of 
Christ. 

It  is  true,  as  Dante  sadly  acknowledges,  that 
Virgil  did  not  perceive  (and  perhaps,  when  we 
consider    how    much    was    revealed    to    him    in   his 


2i8  The  Birth  of  Virgil 

Fourth  Eclogue,  was  guilty  of  rebellion  in  refusing 
to  perceive)  that  the  throne  of  Rome,  the  spiritual 
throne,  was  not  really  destined,  and  could  not  law- 
fully be  given,  to  the  head  of  the  political  Empire. 
In  making  Julius  and  Augustus  into  gods,  in  an- 
nexing the  spiritual  headship  to  the  political,  the 
poet  did  the  very  same  wrong  which  was  done 
reversely  by  those  of  the  Popes  who  strove  to 
annex  the  political  supremacy  to  the  spiritual — the 
error  and  crime  against  which  the  whole  Divina 
Commedia  is  designed  to  protest.  But  it  was  none 
the  less  true  that  Virgil,  by  the  will  and  providence 
of  the  Almighty,  powerfully  aided  to  build  the 
throne.  For  this  reason  chiefly  he  holds  his  place 
in  the  story  and  symbolism  of  Dante ;  and  for  this 
reason  Dante  thought  fit  to  introduce  him  with  the 
statement  that  he  "was  born  sub  Julio" — Italian 
could  not  give  the  point — ''  sub  Julio  (though  Julius 
was  belated),  and  lived  at  Rome  under  the  good 
Augustus,  at  the  time  of  the  false  and  lying  gods." 


/^  / 


f'     *S*6.  f    fW^^*'**^.*.'^'--'''-' 


THE   ALTAR  OF   MERCY 

When  Gibbon,  preparing  the  foundations  of  his 
history  \  distributed  the  views  of  religion  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  Roman  Empire  before  it  was  invaded 
by  Christianity,  under  the  triple  division  of  the 
magistrates,  the  philosophers,  and  the  people — 
defined  respectively  as  those  to  whom  all  religions 
were  equally  useful,  equally  false,  and  equally  true — 
how  did  it  not  occur  to  him  that  his  enumeration 
was  singularly  defective  ?  He  repeats  his  epigram 
in  various  forms  again  and  again,  and  bases  his 
whole  account  of  the  conditions  with  which  the 
invading  doctrines  had  to  deal,  upon  the  assump- 
tion that  the  action  of  the  State,  the  speculations 
of  theorists,  and  the  practices  of  the  populace, 
include  between  them  all  those  aspects  of  religion 
with  which  the  historian  is  concerned.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  the  outcome  of  this  procedure  is  to 
represent  the  evolution  of  the  Graeco- Roman  world 
into  its  Christian  shape  as  a  sort  of  cataclysmic 
puzzle.  A  rival  epigrammatist  might  say,  with  at 
least  equal   truth,  that   the  historian's  catalogue  of 

^  Chapter  n. 


2  20  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

mankind  omits  just  all  the  **  people  "  whose  feelings 
are  most  important.  And  similarly,  in  the  neatly 
numbered  list  of  causes  by  which  the  enigmatic 
phenomenon  is  to  be  explained  \  we  note  that  the 
preparations  and  approaches  upon  the  pagan  side 
count  apparently  for  little  or  nothing.  It  hardly 
seems  to  be  thought  worth  mentioning  that,  in 
various  ways,  that  vast  and  influential  part  of 
society  which  is  neither  official,  nor  scientific,  nor 
superstitious,  had  been  long  in  training,  when  the 
new  preachers  came,  to  receive  just  such  a  gift 
as  they  brought. 

This  exaggerated  sharpness  of  division  between 
Christians  and  Pagans  is  characteristic  of  historical 
study  in  the  times  which  follow  the  rupture  of  the 
Catholic  world  in  the  seventeenth  century;  and  it 
attained  its  height  in  the  eighteenth.  The  tendency 
is  not  confined  to  the  sceptical  side.  Johnson,  who 
roundly  asserts  that  Horace,  when  he  says — 

parcus  deorum  cultor  et  infrequens 
insanientis  dum  sapientiae 

consultus  erro,  nunc  retrorsum 
vela  dare  atque  iterare  cursus 
cogor  relictos : 

is  merely  playing  with  the  idea  of  an  awakened 
conscience,  was  as  little  disposed  as  Gibbon,  his 
adversary  in  the  Literary  Club,  to  recognize  that 
between  "religion"  and  "the  classics"  there  could 
be  any  material  connexion  or  affinity.  It  is  strange 
to  go  back  five  centuries,  to  an  age  of  comparative 

^  Chapter  xv. 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  221 

ignorance,  and  to  see  how  the  students  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  with  their  scanty  apparatus  and 
defective  method,  could  nevertheless  read  the  records 
of  the  transition  to  Christianity  in  a  reasonable  way, 
simply  because  it  had  not  occurred  to  them  that  the 
cause  of  Catholicism  could  be  either  fortified  or  im- 
peached by  misrepresenting  the  manner  of  its  growth, 
or  by  arbitrarily  severing  it  from  some  of  its  natural 
and  necessary  antecedents.  When  Dante  says  that 
the  poet  Statius,  by  his  studies  in  Virgil,  had  been 
led  so  far  towards  the  coming  revelation  that  he 
promptly  recognized  its  truth,  and  was  actually 
initiated  by  baptism  into  the  religion  which  he  had 
not  the  courage  openly  to  profess,  Dante  asserts, 
no  doubt,  much  more  than  is  likely  to  be  true,  and 
his  proofs  (which  in  their  general  outline  are  not 
beyond  the  reach  of  a  fair  guess)  would  have  been 
rejected,  and  rightly,  by  a  better  critic  of  documents. 
But  he  has  the  root  of  the  matter.  He  sees  what 
to  any  simple  and  unprejudiced  mind  is  obvious, 
f  that  the  Thebaid  of  Statius  is  a  document  of  the 
;  first  importance  to  the  history  of  European  religion. 
It  does  not,  indeed,  represent  any  of  Gibbon's  cate- 
gories :  it  is  neither  political  thought,  nor  philosophic, 
nor  popular.  But  it  stands  for  something  not  less 
significant,  as  a  prognostic  of  development,  than  any 
of  these — the  vague  aspirations  of  classes  disposed 
to  think,  but  not  disposed,  or  indeed  able,  to  think 
with  rigour.  To  represent  such  aspirations  is  neces- 
sarily the  chief  business  of  poetry  which  asks  to  be 
taken  seriously  and  to  achieve  a  permanent  place. 


2  22  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

In  a  picture  of  the  society  into  which  Christianity 
came,  to  leave  out  the  Thebaid,  or  not  to  put  the 
Thebaid  well  in  the  foreground,  would  be  like 
describing  the  England  of  the  eighteenth  century 
without  notice  of  the  Essay  on  Man,  or  the  England 
of  the  nineteenth  without  hi  Memoriam. 

Every  age  has  its  own  way  of  error,  and  we, 
no  doubt,  ours.  But  our  way  is  not  the  Voltairian. 
If  we  do  not  read  our  Aeneid  exactly  as  Dante 
read  it,  we  are  at  least  aware  that,  when  Dante 
described  the  visions  of  Virgil  as  a  main  contri- 
bution to  the  establishment  of  Catholicism,  when 
he  wrote  that  the  journey  of  Aeneas  to  Hades  was 
"the  occasion  of  the  Papal  mantle,"  he  stated  a  fact, 
and  a  fact  of  vital  significance.  How  we  read  the 
Thebaid,  it  were  perhaps  best  not  to  inquire.  One 
cannot  read  everything ;  and  it  would  appear  that, 
in  the  whole  repertory  of  important  European  lite- 
rature, no  part  just  now  lies  more  in  the  shade  than 
the  "minor"  Latin  epics.  The  Thebaid,  indeed,  does 
not  deserve  that  epithet  in  any  sense  worth  notice. 
But  at  present  it  goes  with  the  rest ;  and  for  this 
reason  a  reminiscence,  even  of  its  main  aspects,  may 
have  freshness  enough  to  hold  attention  for  a  few 
minutes.  If  it  should  even  convey  the  impression, 
that  to  read  the  poem  continuously  from  beginning 
to  end  is  a  thing  not  impossible  or  unprofitable  or 
unpleasant,  that  is  no  more  than  may  be  very  fairly 
afifirmed. 

The  immediate  purpose  of  the  poem — a  purpose 
which    it  completely  achieved — was  to  satisfy  the 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  223 

taste  of  fashionable  audiences  at  Rome  during  that 
precise  period,  the  latter  part  of  our  first  century, 
when  the  stir  of  the  Christian  movement  began  to 
be  felt  there.  It  is  in  form  a  descriptive  romance, 
and  doubtless  depended  upon  its  romantic  qualities 
for  a  first  hearing.  But  the  author  aspired  to  more 
than  this,  and  believed,  before  his  work  was  com- 
plete, that  he  might  modestly  expect  more.  In 
the  brief  epilogue,  which  records  his  ambition  and 
forecasts  the  future  of  his  enterprise,  he  desires  for 
his  poem  a  place  upon  the  same  line,  at  however 
humble  a  distance,  as  the  Aeneid  itself.  To  rival 
that  "sacred"  book  the  Thebaid  will  not  pretend; 
but  it  does  pretend  to  be  of  the  same  kind,  and 
to  have  a  post  in  the  sacred  procession.  And  in 
partial  confirmation  of  this  claim,  the  author  adds 
that  not  only  has  his  work  obtained  the  notice  of 
Caesar,  but — what  he  justly  estimates  as  more 
significant  for  his  pretension — it  has  already  made 
its  way,  like  the  Aeneid  itself,  into  the  schools : 
already,  he  says,  it  is  an  instrument  of  education. 
No  mere  romancer,  no  mere  story-teller,  could  have 
ventured  to  use  such  language.  We  cannot  con- 
ceive the  Lay  of  the  Last  Mmstrel — a  poem  which 
presents,  as  a  romance,  some  actual  resemblance  in 
type  and  method  to  the  work  of  Statius — we  cannot 
conceive  even  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  put  forward 
by  Scott  or  by  Tennyson  as  following,  however 
distantly  and  respectfully,  in  the  wake  and  track 
of  Paradise  Lost.  They  have  not  the  "sacred" 
character.      This    character    Statius    attributes    of 


2  24  '^^^  Altar  of  Mercy 

course,  as  any  one  of  that  age  would  do,  to  the 
Aeneid\  and  for  the  Thebaid  he  claims  that  it  is 
in  kind  the  same  or  similar ;  the  Thebaid  also  (to 
translate  his  phrases  into  our  language)  is,  he  thinks, 
or  may  be,  in  some  sort  a  gospel. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  he  had  thought 
otherwise.  The  Thebaid  attempts  not  only  to 
latinize,  but  also  to  expand  and  deepen  into  larger 
significance,  a  story  which  for  several  centuries  had 
held  a  chief  place  in  the  religious  symbolism  of  that 
Hellenic  or  Hellenistic  world  to  which  Statius  by 
birth  belonged. 

This  story,  which  here  we  need  not  tell,  descends 
originally  from  a  source  not  now  open  to  investi- 
gation, the  "  Theban  cycle," — that  portion  of  the 
ancient  poetry  passing  under  the  name  of  Homer, 
which  had  Thebes  for  its  centre  of  interest,  as 
another  portion,  the  "  Trojan  cycle,"  revolved  about 
Troy.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  artistic  merits 
of  the  Theban  cycle — we  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
them  small — its  moral  interest  seems  to  have  been 
great  from  the  first,  superior  probably  to  that  of 
the  Trojan.  In  that  chapter  of  the  epic  narrative 
which  forms  the  substructure  of  the  Thebaid,  the 
subject  was  the  doom  of  unlawful  war,  the  defeat 
and  condign  punishment  of  a  wicked  confederacy, 
resolved,  in  despite  of  warning,  to  prosecute  an  un- 
holy quarrel.  In  the  earliest  version  which  we  now 
possess,  the  Seven  Against  Thebes  of  Aeschylus,  the 
ethical  and  humane  sentiment  is  already  powerful, 
much  more  so  than   in   the  Iliad  or  even   in   the 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  225 

Odyssey ;  nor  does  it  seem  likely  that  this  element 
is  entirely  assignable  to  the  Athenian  dramatist. 

But  into  these  early  developments  we  need  not 
enter,  because  in  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  and  in  the 
latter  part  of  it,  later  (that  is  to  say)  than  Aeschylus, 
a  totally  new  colour  was  given  to  the  story  by  the 
establishment,  if  not  the  first  invention,  of  a  sequel, 
devised  in  honour  of  Athens,  and  representing  the 
spirit  of  that  new  humanism  of  which  Athens 
became  the  accepted  centre  and  guardian. 

In  the  original  version,  the  wicked  and  defeated 
warriors  incurred,  as  part  of  their  natural  punish- 
ment, the  refusal  of  funeral  rites.  The  poets  of  the 
cycle,  like  the  poet  of  the  Iliad,  doubtless  accepted 
this  as  an  incident  horrible  indeed,  but  proper  to 
war.  But  according  to  the  new  version,  Athens,  as 
the  champion  of  humanity,  refused  to  permit  such  an 
outrage,  and  enforced  the  common  right  of  the  race 
by  forcibly  rescuing  the  corpses  from  the  insolent 
victors,  and  committing  them  solemnly  to  religious 
sepulture.  The  adoption  of  this  supplement  (when- 
ever first  propounded)  as  an  article  of  Athenian 
religion  can  be  dated  with  near  precision.  There 
is  no  trace  of  it  in  the  Seven  Against  Thebes, 
which  indeed  would  seem  rather  to  exclude  it. 
But  about  fifty  years  later  it  appears  complete  in 
the  Suppliants  of  Euripides.  In  this  play  and 
in  the  Children  of  Heracles,  by  the  same  author, 
where  Athens  plays  a  somewhat  similar  part  as  the 
vindicator  of  the  oppressed  and  a  respecter  even 
of  the  enemy,  we  see  for  the  first  time  clearly  the 
V.  L.  E.  15 


2  26  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

conception  of  Hellas,  and  of  Athens  in  particular, 
as  the  guardian  and  champion  of  humanity.  Then 
for  the  first  time  it  became  distinctly  visible,  at  least 
to  an  enthusiastic  few,  that  the  human  world  can 
be  imagined,  and  might  possibly  be  realized  in  fact, 
as  something  other  than  the  sum  of  many  hostile  and 
internecine  clans,  more  or  less  efficiently  organized 
for  mutual  destruction. 

Upon  the  importance  of  this  idea  or  sentiment, 
and  the  part  which  it  played  in  the  history  of  the 
Mediterranean  peoples  up  to  and  including  the 
formation  of  a  Mediterranean  state  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Caesars,  we  need  not  insist.  The 
Thebaid  is  entirely  occupied  with  it.  The  whole 
story,  as  conceived  by  the  author,  is  a  preparation 
for  the  final  interference  of  Athens,  an  ideal  Athens, 
which  figures  symbolically  as  the  sacred  city  of 
humanism  and  humanity. 

And  now  let  us  see  precisely  in  what  terms  the 
essence  of  this  Hellenistic  religion  is  described,  for 
the  edification  of  "  Italian  youth,"  by  Statius,  a  son 
;(be  it  remembered)  not  of  Italy,  but  of  the  Hellenic 
city  of  Naples. 

To  invoke  the  interference  of  a  defender  on 
behalf  of  the  dead,  in  whom  humanity  is  outraged, 
the  widows  of  the  slain  repair  to  Athens.  There, 
and  there  only  as  yet  (we  are  told),  the  conception 
of  Godhead  had  been  partly  dissociated  from  that 
of  mere  superhuman  power.  There  and  there  only 
was  to  be  found,  among  the  temples  consecrated  to 
force,  one  place  reserved  for  compassion. 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  227 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  city  was  an  Altar,  per- 
taining not  to  Might  nor  the  powers  thereof,  but 
to  gentle  Mercy.  Mercy  there  had  fixed  her  seat, 
and  misery  made  it  holy.  Thither  new  suppliants 
came  ever  without  fail,  and  found  acceptance  all. 

"  There  to  ask  is  to  be  heard,  and  dark  or  light, 
all  hours  give  access  unto  One  whose  grace  costs 
nothing  but  a  complaint. 

"  The  ritual  takes  no  tax,  accepts  no  incense- 
flame,  no  drench  of  blood,  but  only  the  dew  of 
tears  upon  the  stone,  and  the  shorn  hair  of  the 
mourner  for  a  wreath  above,  and  for  drapery  the 
cast  robe  which  sorrow  puts  away. 

"  With  trees  of  kindness  the  ground  is  planted 
about,  and  marked  for  pardon  and  peace  with  the 
fillet-bounden  bay  and  the  olive's  suppliant  bough. 

"  Image  there  is  not  any:  to  no  mould  of  metal 
is  trusted  that  Form  Divine,  who  loves  to  dwell  in 
minds  and  in  hearts. 

"  Nor  lacketh  there  perpetual  assembly.  For 
shaking  fear  and  shivering  poverty,  these  know  that 
Altar  well,  and  only  happiness  knoweth  it  not, 

"  The  legend  is,  that  it  was  the  children  of 
Hercules  who  founded  the  sanctuary,  in  the  city 
whose  warriors  protected  them  when  their  sire  had 
passed  from  the  pyre  to  the  sky. 

"  So  the  tale  sayeth,  but  sayeth  not  worthily. 
Rather  we  should  believe  that  it  was  those  Visitants 
from  Heaven  whom  Athens  had  ever  made  welcome 
to  her  soil,  the  same  who  there,  in  Athens,  created 
law  and  the  new  man  and  the  better  way,  they  who 

15—2 


2  28  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

thither  brought  the  seed  which  thence  descended 
upon  the  waste  places  of  the  earth — these  (we  will 
say)  did  in  Athens  likewise  set  apart  a  place  of 
common  refuge  for  souls  that  are  sick,  a  sanctuary- 
closed  against  wrath  and  threatening  and  tyrant 
strength,  and  which  prosperity  should  not  profane. 

"  Even  in  those  old  days  that  spot  was  known 
to  the  wide  world.  Thither  the  conquered  came, 
and  the  exile,  fallen  power  and  wandering  guilt. 
There  did  they  meet,  and  prayed  their  peace. 

"  The  time  was  near,  when  the  grace  of  that 
hospice  should  vanquish  even  the  fiends  of  an 
Oedipus,  should  cover  the  corpse  of  Olynthus,  and 
take  even  from  an  Orestes  the  torture  of  his  mother's 
ghost'." 

Prose  does  of  course  no  justice  to  the  fine  melody 
of  the  Latin  ;  nor  is  it  possible  for  English  words  to 
convey  exactly  the  native  flavour.  But  the  sense  of 
this  admirable  passage  (if  we  have  caught  it)  will 
sufficiently  show  why  we  should  not  be  too  impatient 
with  the  scholars  of  the  thirteenth  century,  or  too 
ready  to  insist  on  our  superiority  in  historical  and 
philological  science,  when  we  find  Dante  searching 
for  proofs  that  the  Roman  who  was  expounding  this 
religion  to  the  society  of  Rome,  within  a  few  years 
after  "the  prisoner  of  Christ  Jesus"  was  brought 
in  by  the  Appian  Way,  had  actually  been  in  touch 

^  Statius,  Thebais,  xn  481.  The  legend  of  Olynthus  (?)  is 
apparently  unknown.  It  probably  belonged  to  the  same 
Areopagitic  circle  as  those  of  Oedipus  and  Orestes,  and  sym- 
bolized the  same  doctrine  of  forgiveness. 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  229 

with  "  the  new  preachers,"  and  had  welcomed  their 
message  as  the  very  word  for  which  he  was  waiting. 
Such  an  error  is  nothing  beside  that  of  enumerating 
a  laboured  list  of  causes  why  the  Christian  doctrine 
should  have  rapidly  made  its  way  in  the  Graeco- 
Roman  world,  and  omitting  to  specify,  for  one  cause 
and  the  chief,  that  this  world,  so  far  as  it  had  com-  // 
prehended  and  embraced  the  Hellenistic  culture,  was  ^ 
more  than  half  Christian  already. 

It  was  not  on  this  passage  in  particular  that 
Dante  rested  his  conviction  that  Statius  was  an 
actual  convert  ;  for  he  dates  the  baptism  of  the 
poet  by  an  earlier  part  of  the  Thebaid^,  and  before 
Book  XII  was  presumably  written.  But  doubtless 
this  description,  the  cardinal  point  of  the  whole 
poem,  weighed  with  Dante,  or  with  the  authors 
of  his  theory,  as  general  evidence  towards  their 
conclusion.  And  well  it  might.  A  Christian  reader 
need  not  be  either  ignorant  or  prejudiced,  to  feel 
a  shock  of  surprise  or  curiosity  upon  reading,  in 
a  contemporary  of  St  Paul,  and  in  what  is  mani- 
festly intended  for  a  declaration  against  paganism 
(as  it  was  commonly  held  and  understood),  the 
allusions  of  Statius  to  the  "  new  man "  and  the 
"seed  descending  upon  the  waste  places  of  the 
earth."  From  the  whole  tone  and  method  of 
Dante's  comments  upon  the  Latin  poets,  especially 
upon  Virgil  and  Statius,  we  must  infer  that  he 
would  have  cited  these  expressions  as  consciously 

^  See    the    Essay    on   Dante    and   the  Baptism    of   Statius, 
above,  p.  i8i. 


230  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

Christian,    as    betraying    that    secret    acquaintance 

with    the   Christian    mysteries  which    he   attributes 

to  the  author  of  the  Thebaid — outwardly  a  courtier 

of    Domitian,    but    inwardly    an    adherent   of    the 

Apostles.      It   would,   of   course,    be    unpardonable, 

with    our  present   lights,   to   repeat  this   error   and 

exaggeration.      The    Athenian,    or    rather    perhaps 

Eleusinian,    symbols    to   which    Statius    does   really 

allude,  the  legendary  restoration  of  the  human  race 

and  the  mystic  sign  of  the  corn-seed,  were  far  older 

.  than  Christianity,  and   by  no  means  identical  with 

I  the  Christian  signs  or  doctrines  which  they  super- 

l  ficially    resemble  ;    though,    on    the    other   hand,    a 

\  historian  who   should   deny  all  connexion  between 

*  the    two   systems,    would    be   going   beyond    proof 

and  indeed  beyond  likelihood. 

But    upon     dubious    resemblances    or    solitary 
phrases  there  is  no  need  to  insist.     What  is  solid 
and  evident,   what  leaps  to  the  eye,   is  the  senti- 
ment of  the  whole  passage,  the  spirit,  the  general 
conception  of  religion,  from  which  it  proceeds.      For 
this  there  is  only  one  suitable  word.      It  is  exactly 
I  that  sentiment  to  which  Christianity  appealed.     To 
\  console   the   miserable  and   the  guilty,  to  heal  the 
I   wounds  of  the  world  and  the  sense  of  sin — these 
\   are    the    offices    of    that    Altar    to    which    Statius 
I   directs    the    worship    of    mankind.      "  I    will    have 
I  mercy   and    not    sacrifice " ;    "  Come   unto    Me,    all 
I  ye  that   labour    and    are    heavy-laden "  ; — for    such 
^  inscriptions,  and   for  such   only,   the  shrine  of   his 
imagination  is  prepared. 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  231 

Imaginary,  visionary,  an  ideal  rather  than  a  fact, 
we  must  evidently  consider  it,  although  it  had  an 
historical  counterpart  and  actual  existence.  There 
were  in  Athens  altars  to  more  than  one  "Deity" 
or  spiritual  abstraction,  answering  more  or  less  to 
the  "dementia"  of  Statius — an  altar  of  "  Eleos," 
an  altar  of  "Aidos."  They  are  catalogued,  as 
Athenian  curiosities,  by  the  antiquarian  impar- 
tiality of  the  traveller  Pausanias,  whose  description 
of  Hellas  dates  from  our  second  century ;  and  we 
hear  of  them  otherwise.  But  it  is  not  in  the  spirit 
of  a  Pausanias  that  Statius  commemorates  them. 
The  Athens  of  his  religion  is  a  spiritual  Athens, 
the  imperfect  symbol  of  that  Hellenism  by  which 
he  lived.  The  "Altar  of  Mercy"  is  not  for  him 
an  object  in  a  museum,  an  item  in  a  collection 
of  miscellaneous  antiquities.  He  scarcely  cares  to 
place  it :  it  was  "  in  the  midst  of  the  city."  For 
the  venerable  legend  associated  with  it,  the  story 
of  Hercules  and  his  children,  he  has  nothing  but 
scorn.  The  Altar  of  his  thought  was  fiot  founded 
by  the  children  of  Hercules,  nor  in  fact  by  any 
earthly  hand.  Like  other  such  emblems  of  aspi- 
ration, it  was  "  never  built  at  all,  and  therefore 
built  for  ever." 

And  in  the  thought  of  the  poet  it  stands  alone. 
We  cannot  miss,  nor  misunderstand,  the  sweeping 
depreciation  by  which,  in  comparison  with  this 
Deity  of  the  soul,  and  with  the  uncostly  sacrifice 
of  a  broken  heart,  the  whole  art  and  ritual  of 
polytheistic    superstition    are    waved    away.      Such 


232  The  Altar  of  Mercy 

ornaments  and  offerings  are  for  the  patrons  of 
power ;  and  to  these  let  those  bring  them  who 
will.  Nor  can  it  be  fairly  said  that  there  is  any- 
thing in  the  Thebaid  that  cannot,  with  reasonable 
allowance  for  the  use  of  conventional  literary  forms, 
be  reconciled  to  the  position  here  finally  taken  up. 
The  Apollo,  the  Juno,  and  the  Minerva  of  Statius 
are  no  more  real  than  those  of  Christian  poets,  of 
Dante  himself  for  example.  We  can  no  more 
reason  from  the  use  of  such  machinery  to  the 
opinion  of  the  writer,  than  we  could  infer  the 
theological  convictions  of  Scott  from  the  spirits 
which  discourse  upon  the  progress  of  the  story 
in  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  In  this  respect 
the  Thebaid  differs  greatly  from  the  Aeneid,  where, 
to  the  advantage  doubtless  of  the  story  as  a  picture 
for  the  fancy,  but  to  the  detriment  or  confusion 
of  the  significance,  the  traditional  figures  of  the 
Olympian  gods  have  pretensions  to  reality  which 
in  Statius  they  have  lost.  This  difference  among 
others  was  noted,  we  may  presume,  by  Dante,  who 
had  his  own  practice  and  feelings,  as  a  poet  both 
Christian  and  classical,  to  guide  him  in  such  obser- 
vations. He  would  naturally  reckon  it  in  favour  of 
the  opinions  and  theology  of  Statius,  and  attribute 
it  to  the  advance,  or  rather  the  approach,  of  the 
true  religion. 

But  in  fact  we  may  suspect  that  this  difference 
between  Statius  and  Virgil  is  due  not  so  much  to 
time  as  to  place.  It  is  a  difference  in  origin  and 
native  culture.     The   Thebaid  has  nothing   Roman 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  233 

about  it,  or  almost  nothing,  except  the  language. 
Even  the  Latin  has  marked  Hellenic  features,  and 
the  substance  is  pure  Hellenism.  Allusions  to  Italy 
and  things  Italian,  which  might  have  been  easily 
introduced,  had  such  been  the  purpose,  are  almost 
entirely  absent,  and  when  they  occur,  are  made 
as  a  Greek  might  have  made  them.  Nothing  else 
could  be  expected  from  a  Neapolitan,  from  a  writer 
so  conscious  of  the  difference  between  the  Hellenic 
and  the  non-Hellenic  elements  in  the  civilization 
of  the  Empire,  that  when  he  reviews  the  epics  of 
Rome  in  search  of  a  compliment  to  the  memory 
of  Lucan,  he  can  remark  that,  "as  a  poem  for 
Latins "  (Latinis  canens),  the  Pharsalia  might 
claim  a  preference  even  to  the  Aeneid.  The 
work  of  Virgil  would  have  been  reckoned  by  the 
Neapolitan,  not  to  its  disadvantage,  as  largely 
Greek.  Naples,  described  as  a  city  still  fully 
Greek  in  the  time  of  Augustus,  retaining  the  Greek 
constitution  of  society,  Greek  life,  festivals,  and  cul- 
ture, had  presumably  lost  little  or  nothing  of  this 
character  in  the  brief  interval  which  brings  us  to 
Statins.  Rather  the  marked  patronage  extended 
to  its  festivals  by  succeeding  emperors,  and  the 
conspicuous  imitation  of  them  by  Domitian,  the 
prince  under  whom  Statius  passed  the  time  of  his 
maturity  and  production,  would  strengthen  the 
conscious  pride  of  the  Neapolitan  in  representing 
the  chief  centre  of  Greek  learning  and  civilization 
within  the  bounds  of  Italy.  It  is  worth  noticing, 
that  Naples  claimed  to  have  received  a  colony  from 


234  ^^^  Altar  of  Mercy 

Athens  herself — the  more  worth  noticing,  because 
the  historic  fact  is  perhaps  something  more  than 
doubtful.  When  we  see  what  part  is  played  by 
Athens,  a  somewhat  imaginary  and  idealized  Athens, 
in  the  Thebaid,  we  may  suspect  that,  in  the  view 
of  Statius,  his  pretension  to  an  Athenian  affiliation 
was  at  least  as  valuable  as  that  Roman  citizenship 
which  the  Neapolitans,  though  faithful  "  allies "  of 
Rome,  accepted  late  and  with  regret.  The  natural 
religion  of  such  a  person  was  the  religion  of 
Euripides,  matured  and  enlarged, — Hellenistic  hu- 
manism in  its  latest  stage  of  rational  refinement 
and  cosmopolitan  scope. 

The  part  belonging  to  this  type  of  sentiment 
and  imagination,  among  the  influences  preparatory 
to  the  adoption  of  Christianity  as  the  religion  of 
the  Empire,  might  doubtless  be  overrated,  but  may 
be  underrated  more  easily.  It  is  certainly  not  from 
the  actual  leaders  of  the  Christian  movement,  that 
we  shall  learn  to  depreciate  the  importance  of  its 
relation  to  that  species  of  thought  whose  ideal 
centre  was  the  Areopagus  of  Athens.  "  Whom 
therefore  ye  ignorantly  worship.  Him  declare  I 
unto  you."  It  does  not  belong  here  to  consider 
the  precise  position  in  history  which  should  be 
assigned  to  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  But  mani- 
festly the  author  of  that  book,  and  those  by  whom 
it  was  invested  with  authority,  did  not  desire  to 
overlook  or  to  minimise  any  advantage  which  the 
new  religion  might  obtain  from  its  claim  to  em- 
brace,   absorb,   and  satisfy  that   gentle  doctrine  of 


The  Altar  of  Mercy  235 

humanity  which  had  radiated,  or  was  at  least  sup- 
posed by  the  world  to  have  radiated,  from  Mars' 
Hill.  "Ye  men  of  Athens,  I  perceive  that  in  all 
things  ye  are  exceedingly  God-fearing."  To  an 
exhaustive  commentary  upon  these  words,  and 
upon  the  discourse  which  follows  them,  no  small 
contribution  should  be  furnished  by  the  Thebaid. 

As  we  have  had  occasion  to  express  the  ap- 
proval which,  when  all  reserves  are  made,  is  due 
to  the  historical  appreciation  of  Statius  and  his 
position  by  the  scholarship  of  the  thirteenth  century 
as  represented  in  Dante,  we  ought  not  perhaps  to 
leave  unnoticed  the  strange  and  somewhat  discon- 
certing perversion  by  which  Dante,  as  commonly 
and  naturally  interpreted,  attributes  the  origin  of 
Statius,  not  to  Naples,  but  to  Toulouse — 

"  So  sweet  was  the  breath  of  my  voice,  that  I,  a 
citizen  of  Tolosa,  was  drawn  by  Rome  unto  herself  \" 

It  would  no  doubt  be  possible,  without  absurdity, 
to  suppose  that  Statius,  like  Lucan,  came  from  the 
far  west ;  nor  did  Dante  apparently  possess  the 
direct  evidence  which  we  now  have  to  the  actual 
fact.  But  even  upon  the  documents  which  were 
certainly  before  him,  and  in  view  of  what  he  him- 
self infers  and  propounds,  it  is  somewhat  surprising 
that  he  should  have  accepted  the  supposed  datum, 
and  still  more  so  that  he  should  have  thought  it 
worthy  of  mention.  However,  it  is  enough  here 
to  note  his  error,  which  in  any  case  is  of  little 
importance. 

^  Furgatorio,  xxi  88:  "che,  Tolosano,  Roma  a  se  mi  trasse.' 


ARISTOPHANES   ON   TENNYSON 

The  Muse  of  Comedy  and  the  Muse — if  there 
be  one — of  Criticism  are  not  sisters ;  they  are 
"scarce  cater-cousins."  The  business  of  Comedy 
is  to  plant  a  jest  and  get  a  laugh — with  or  without 
sense,  reason,  and  justice  ;  it  is  not  for  her  to  inquire. 
When  Aristophanes,  shy  perhaps  of  politics  in  the 
delicacy  of  the  political  situation,  took  for  his  Frogs 
a  subject  purely  literary,  and  faced  the  risk  of  in- 
viting a  popular  audience  to  spend  some  hours  upon 
a  comparison  between  the  fashionable  tragedy  of 
the  day,  as  represented  by  the  recently  deceased 
Euripides,  and  that  which  had  been  admired,  by 
command  of  Aeschylus  two  generations  before, 
little  can  he  have  dreamed  of  the  gravity  with  which 
some  of  his  impudent  tricks  would  be  canvassed  by 
the  erudition  of  future  ages.  It  may  be  worth  while 
to  illustrate  the  true  value  of  one  trick, — his  very 
best,  if  estimated  for  the  purpose  of  the  comic 
stage, — by  applying  it  to  a  poet  and  poetry  not  yet 
ancient  enough  to  be,  like  Euripides,  half-buried  in 
misunderstanding. 

Among  the  formal  innovations  of  Euripides,  one 
of  the  most  conspicuous  was  that  of  opening  the 


Aristophanes  on   Tennyso7i  237 

play  with  a  compendious  narrative  of  the  antecedent 
facts  or  suppositions  defining  the  situation,  or  at  all 
events  that  view  of  the  situation  from  which  the 
action  starts.  For  this  practice  there  was  good 
reason  in  the  peculiar  attitude  of  Euripides  towards 
the  subject-matter  of  Athenian  tragedy ;  and  Aris- 
tophanes, to  do  him  justice,  says  nothing  to  the 
contrary.  But  of  course  there  is  in  such  openings 
a  similarity  of  form  and  style,  a  certain  dryness  or 
simplicity  of  manner,  which  does  not  belong  to 
openings  directly  dramatic.  There  are  not  many 
possible  manners,  or  rather  there  is  but  one,  of 
telling  a  story  rapidly  and  yet  completely  in  verse. 
Moreover,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  there  is  a 
tendency  (which,  as  we  are  going  to  see,  is  almost 
irresistible)  to  start  with  a  statement  about  some 
personage  in  the  story,  so  that  the  grammatical  subject 
or  nominative  case  of  the  first  sentence  will  be  a 
proper  name.  "Samson,  the  mighty  man,  Manoah's 
son...,"  or  "The  shepherd  David,  summoned  from 
the  flock...,"  are  obvious  ways  of  beginning  a 
summary  account  of  those  heroes. 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Euripides  in  his  pro- 
logues avoided  this  ready  and  quite  proper  form  of 
commencement  with  much  more  care  than  (as  we 
shall  see)  could  be  expected  or  reasonably  asked. 
But  he  used  it  sometimes.  And  Aristophanes 
perceived  that,  by  collecting  these  cases,  he  could 
get  the  material  for  a  good  theatrical  joke.  He 
could  pretend  to  show,  in  a  dramatic  manner,  that 
Euripides    knew   but    one    type    of   sentence    for  a 


238  Aristophanes  on   Tennyson 

beginning.  For,  whenever  this  type  occurs,  you 
can  of  course  surprise  the  audience  by  an  inter- 
ruption and  a  nonsensical  finish.  "  Samson,  the 
mighty  man,  Manoah's  son — ...Walked  up  a  hill, 
and  then  walked  down  again."  "  The  shepherd 
David,  summoned  from  the  flock — ...Walked  up 
a  hill,  and  then  walked  down  again."  And  since 
every  kind  of  verse  has,  by  necessity,  certain 
habitual  places  of  punctuation,  it  will  often  happen 
that,  as  in  these  instances,  the  same  nonsensical 
finish  will  find  a  possible  point  of  attachment.  From 
a  habit  of  the  tragic  metre  in  Greek,  it  chanced  that 
the  middle  of  the  verse  was  the  most  convenient 
point  for  attaching  a  tag ;  what  point  you  take 
matters  nothing,  provided  it  is  always  the  same. 
Accordingly  Aristophanes,  having  got  together,  out 
of  some  three-score  Euripidean  plays,  half-a-dozen 
legitimate  instances  (and  one  not  legitimate')  of 
opening  sentences  similar  in  this  respect,  that  all 
have  a  personal  subject  and  proper  name,  and  all 
are  punctuated  at  the  same  point,  compels  his  pre- 
tended Euripides  to  quote  these  selected  cases  as 
typical,  and  assigns  to  his  pretended  Aeschylus,  in 
the  character  of  a  critic,  the  part  of  interrupting 
Euripides  each  time  at  the  proper  point,  and  com- 
pleting the  sentence  with  the  same  nonsensical  end. 
As  a  stage-trick,  nothing  could  be  better  ;  and  how 

^  Frogs,  1 2 19.  "Euripides"  (see  the  context)  cites  this  as 
an  instance  to  the  contrary ;  and  so  it  is,  though  the  tag  can  be 
botched  on  somehow.  The  only  legitimate  example  among  the 
nineteen  extant  plays  {Iphigenia  in   Taurica)  is  cited. 


Aristophanes  07t   Tennyson  239 

effective  it  is,  an  Englishman  will  more  promptly 
perceive,  if  we  apply  it  to  poetry  and  themes  for 
which  we  have  a  natural,  and  not  merely  a  cultivated 
affection.  But  as  criticism,  were  it  so  meant,  it 
would  be  futile,  as  by  the  same  application  we  shall 
most  easily  show  and  understand. 

It  happens  that  the  greatest  master  of  narrative 
verse  among  modern  English  poets  has  really  done 
what  Aristophanes  attributes  to  Euripides — falsely, 
as  he  well  knew,  and  idly,  had  the  charge  been  true. 
Tennyson,  in  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  does  really, 
and  quite  properly,  prefer  to  open  his  stories,  more 
than  half  of  them,  in  the  way  which  Euripides  used 
very  seldom,  though  often  enough  for  the  purpose 
of  the  comedian.  The  style  of  Aristophanes  is  not 
to  be  had  at  command  ;  but  any  one  may  exhibit 
his  impertinence. 

For  this  purpose  Tennyson  shall  be  put,  as  any 
son  of  man  may,  whatever  his  dignity  and  glory,  in 
the  place  of  Euripides. 

In  the  place  of  Aeschylus,  the  "Aeschylus"  of 
Aristophanes,  we  will  most  certainly  not  put  any 
English  poet  or  person  of  credit.  "Aeschylus"  is 
a  malicious  fool,  for  whom  we  will  borrow  the  name 
of  "  Gigadibs,  the  literary  man," — with  apologies  to 
Browning,  and  indeed  to  Gigadibs.  And  thirdly, 
to  complete  a  parallel  with  the  scene  in  the  Frogs, 
we  require  in  addition  to  the  poet  and  the  critic, 
contenders  in  the  literary  debate,  a  by-stander,  as 
spectator  and  umpire.  In  Aristophanes  this  part 
is  played  by  a  sort  of  average  Athenian  ass,  upon 


240  Aristophanes  on   Tennyson 

whom,  as  representing  the  patrons  of  the  drama,  is 
conferred  the  title  of  the  "god"  Dionysus,  in  his 
character  as  proprietor  of  the  pubHc  theatre.  We 
have  no  "  Dionysus "  in  England,  but  the  "  Phili- 
stine "  of  Matthew  Arnold  will  be  good  enough. 
These  three,  then,  shall  be  the  interlocutors  of  our 
comedian, — a  "  Tennyson,"  such  as  he  chooses  to 
manufacture,  a  "  Gigadibs,"  ditto,  and  a  "Philistine," 
such  as  he  is  : 

Gigadibs    {to   the   Philistine).     I    say,    sir,    and 
repeat, — this  Tennyson 
Was  uninventive,  dull,  a  mere  machine 
For  turning  verse,  and  I   will  prove  the  same. 

Philistine.     Oh  come,   I  say ! 

Gig.  Look  at  his  Idylls^  then ! 

Tennyson.     Yes,  look,  and  show  them  faulty,  if 
you  dare! 

Gig.     I  '11  wipe  out  all  your  Idylls  of  the  King, 
All,  with  a  single  pocket-handkerchief. 

Tenn.     A  handkerchief! 

Gig.  A  handkerchief,  a  towel, 

A  napkin,  rag,  or  anything  that  wipes. 
All's  one.     So  poor  you  are  in  artifice. 
So  stiff,  mechanical,  and  monotonous, 
That  one  may  fit  the  self-same  piece  of  stuff 
To  all  your  patterns. 

Tenn.  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? 

Gig.     Just  what  I  say.     You  can't  begin  a  tale 
In  any  way  but  one.     Your  opening  lines 
Invariably  admit,  invite,  suggest 


Aristophanes  on   Tennyson  241 

The  same  pathetic  end  and  supplement, — 
A  cold  in  the  head  and  pocket-handkerchief. 
Proper  to  those  afflicted  with  catarrh. 

Tenn.     Nonsense  !     How  dare  you  ! 

Gig.  Very  well,  begin. 

Begin,  and   I   will  tag  you  every  time 
With  just  the  same  conclusion,  every  time 
Same  ailment  and  same  simple  remedy, 
A  cold  in  the  head,  et  caetera.     Come,  begin  : 
Quote  me  an   Idyll,  any  one  you  please, 
The  opening  lines. 

Tenn.  But  really... 

Phil.  Pray,  my  lord. 

If  only  to  expose  his  impudence, 
Oblige  the  gentleman. 

Tenn.  Oh,  certainly. 

Which   Idyll? 

Gig.  Any. 

Phil.  "Gareth  and  Lynette." 

Tenn.  {reciting pompously).     "The  last  tall  son 
of  Lot  and   Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring " 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold,  and  blew  his  little  nose. 

Phil.     Eh  ? 

Tenn.  What  ?     What's  that  ? 

Phil.  Surprising !     Had  a  cold  ? 

How  did  he  get  it  ? 

Gig.  "In  a  showerful  spring"; 

The  poet  says  so.     Gareth,   I   presume, 
Walked  in  the  rain,  forgot  to  change  his  clothes, 
And  hence  the  sequel.     Anyhow,  the  tag 

V.  L.  E.  16 


242  Aristophanes  on   Tennyson 

Fits,  as  I  promised. 

Tenn.  Pooh  !     An  accident ! 

You  will  not  do  it  twice, 

Phil.  No,  that  he  won't ; 

Impossible. 

Gig.  {to  Tennyson^.     Then  try  me.    Start  again. 
Tenn.     {beginning    *'  The    Last    Tournament "). 
"  Dagonet,   the  fool,   whom   Gawain    in   his 
mood 
Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, 

At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing  woods," 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold,  and  blew  his  little  nose. 
Phil.     Goodness !     I    never !     There   it  comes 

again. 
Gig.     And    very   aptly.       Note    the    time   and 
place : 
"At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing  woods," 
The  autumn  season,  damp  and  treacherous. 
The  unsheltered  situation  of  the  town, 
And  carelessness  of  "  Dagonet  the  fool." 

Phil.      Hm!      Rather     odd!— I     fear.     Lord 
Tennyson, 
This  is  another  accident. 

Tenn.  Oh,  bosh! 

Listen  to  this,  and  own  yourself  an  ass. 

{begins  "  The  Coming  of  Arthur''^  "  Leodogran, 
the  King  of  Cameliard, 

Had" 

Gig.         A  bad  cold,  and  blew  his  little  nose. 
Phil.     Why,    this   is   worse   and  worse !      The 
handkerchief 


Aristophanes  on   Tenityson  243 

Pops  out  already  in  the  second  line. 

Gig.     Yes,  'twas  a  chilly  climate,  as  we  hear 
Later :    "  the  land  of  Cameliard  was  waste, 
Thick  with  wet  woods  " — a  most  unhealthy  spot. 
And  pray  observe,  the  poet  gives  me  "had": 
Leodogran,  according  to  the  bard. 
Had  something.     Well,   I   say  he  had  a  cold. 

Tenn.     Blasphemer ! 

Phil.  Come,  come,   Tennyson,  be  calm. 

The  case  is  getting  grave.     Three  accidents ! 
Three   Idylls  tainted  with  this  monstrous  cold! 
There  must  be  one  that  will  not  let  it  in ; 
At  him  again,  and  make  a  better  choice. 

Ten7i.  {beginni7ig '' The  GraH'').    "From  nolseful 
arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale  " 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold... 

Phil.  Poor  Percivale ! 

Gig.  It  came 

From  getting  hot  in  tournaments  and  tilts. 

Tenn.     Nonsense ! 

Phil.  Why  so  ? 

Tenn.  Shut  up  !  I  will  be  heard  ; 

It  all  comes  right  directly. 

Gig.  Go  ahead. 

Tenn.  {recites).     "...In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir 
Percivale, 
Whom    Arthur    and    his    knighthood    called    The 
Pure," 

Gig.      Had  a  bad  cold... 

Tenn.  No,  no !  [shoutiftg)  "Sir  Percivale, 

16 — 2 


244  Aristophanes  on   Tennyson 

Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  called  The  Pure, 
Had" 

Gig.         A  bad  cold,  and  blew  his  little  nose. 
I  knew  it! 

Tenn.  (roaring).     But  I  say... 

Pkil.  No,  Alfred,  no, 

It  will  not  do ;    Sir  Percivale  is  doomed. 
Give  us  "  Geraint  and  Enid."     They  perhaps 
May  escape  this  influenza,  though — I   fear. 

Tenn.  {begins  '^Geraint  and  Enid '^).    "The  brave 
Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  court," 

Gig.     Had  a  bad 

Phil.  Yes,  alas !     But  let  it  pass. 

We  must  not  be  too  cruel,  too  severe. 
Even  in  the  fatal  air  of  Camelot 
It  must,   I  think,  have  happened,  now  and  then, 
That  people  ran  a  risk  of... you  know  what, 
But  somehow  did  not  have  it  after  all. 
Geraint  shall  get  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

Gig.     Just  as  you  like. 

Phil,  {to  Tennyson).  Go  on,  and  let  us  hear. 

Tenn.     "The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 
court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  Order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had" 

Gig.     A  bad  cold. 

Phil.  Oh  dear! 

Gig.  Of  course  he  did. 

And  blew  his  little  nose.     I  told  you  so ! 

Phil.     This  is  too  awful.     Really,  Tennyson, 


Aristophanes  on   Tennyson  245 

We  had  better  give  it  up. 

Tenn.  Give  up !     Not  I  ! 

Listen  to  this,  and  tag  it  if  you  can. 

{begins  ''Elaine'').     "Elaine" 

Phil.  I'm  certain  she  will  have  a  cold. 

Tenn.    {reciting).       "  Elaine    the    fair,     Elaine 

the" 

Phil.  Oh,  beware ! 

Now  comes  the  dangerous  point.     Take  care  of  her. 
Tenn.    [reciting  with    hesitation).     "  Elaine    the 

fair, . . . Elaine. . .the  loveable," 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold.     That's  one ! 
Phil.  It  is,   it  is. 

Tenn.     Silence!     I'll  gag  you  if  you  interrupt. 
{beginning  again,  and  reciting  faster).     "Elaine 
the  fair,   Elaine  the  loveable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat," 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold.     That's  two ! 
Phil.  It  is,   it  is. 

Tenn.  {reciting  at  a  furious  pace).     "  Elaine  the 
fair,  Elaine  the  loveable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east " 

Gig.     Had  a  bad  cold,  and  blew  her  little  nose. 
Phil.     She  did,  she  did,  she  did !     Three  colds 
she  had. 
At  every  verse  a  cold.      Poor  lily  maid ! 

Gig.     And  well  she  might  have  in  that  windy 

flat. 
Phil     "  High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 
east." 


246  Aristophanes  on   Tennyson 

Tenn.   (changing  desperately  to   another  Idyll). 
"  Queen  Guinevere  had  " 

Phil.  No,  my  lord,  no  more. 

We  will  not  ask  the  fate  of  Guinevere ; 
She  had  a  cold,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ; 
She  had  a  cold,  she  caught  it  from  Elaine ; 
Your  Idylls  reek  with  it.     And  since  the  thing's 
Infectious,  and  the  air  is  getting  thick, 
We  had  best  perhaps  go  home — and  take  quinine. 


THE    PROSE   OF   WALTER   SCOTT 

When  Byron  and  Scott  were  approaching,  one 
of  them  the  end  of  his  Hfe,  and  the  other  of  his 
prosperity,  they  exchanged  in  a  monumental  corre- 
spondence the  princely  compliments  of  literary 
diplomacy ;  and  Byron,  who,  though  he  had  then 
disclaimed  the  quarrel  of  "English  Bards"  with 
"  Scotch  Reviewers,"  was  engaged  more  deeply 
than  ever  in  defending  the .  Augustan  manner  of 
Pope  against  the  fashions  which  he  himself  had 
helped  Scott  and  others  to  introduce, — Byron,  than  / 
whom  few  men  have  been  more  independent  of  I 
fashion  and  of  flattery,  affirmed  that  he  found  no 
one  of  whose  superiority  Sir  Walter  could  reason- 
ably be  jealous,  either  among  the  living  or,  all  | 
things  considered,  among  the  dead.  It  is  certain, 
from  the  principles  and  practice  of  Byron  as  a  critic, 
that  in  this  judgement  he  regarded  form  as  well  as 
substance,  technical  merit  not  less,  perhaps  even 
more,  than  abundance  of  imagination  and  invention  ; 
certain  also,  that  it  was  upon  the  prose  of  the 
romances  that  he  built  his  judgement,  rather  than 
upon  the  metrical  merit,  already  questionable,  of 
Marmion  and   The  Lady  of  the  Lake.     And  after 


248  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

the  lapse  of  a  century,  when  there  is  no  more  any 
question  of  living  and  dead,  and  the  measure  of 
Scott  is  to  be  taken  solely  by  the  standard  of  what 
is  common  to  good  work  universally,  the  opinion  of 
Byron  may  still  stand  as  defensible.  It  is  true  that 
Scott's  works  show  the  mark  of  his  rapidity,  and  that 
in  average  pieces  of  narrative  he  is  not  fastidious 
in  expression  or  always  correct.  It  has  been  said, 
and  may  perhaps  be  said  with  as  much  truth  as  is 
demanded  from  an  epigram,  that  in  average  pieces 
of  his  prose  "  he  has  no  style  at  all."  But  it  is  also 
true  that  in  the  great  moments  to  which  those  rapid 
sketches  are  subsidiary,  in  the  pinnacles  for  which 
the  scaffolding  is  somewhat  hazardously  piled  up,  he 
displays  not  only  a  touch  of  hand  peculiar  to  himself, 
but  also  perfect  command  of  sound  construction,  a 
sure  hold  upon  those  principles  of  speech — call  them 
rules,  practices,  or  what  you  will — which  come  from 
the  deepest  parts  of  humanity,  and  are  common  to 
all  that  succeed  in  this  kind.  A  mind  not  sensible 
to  the  effects  of  Scott,  when  he  intends  effect,  would 
have  to  seek  satisfaction  somewhere  else  than  in 
literature  as  it  has  been  practised  by  all  Europe 
(to  take  the  narrowest  limit)  from  Homer  to  this 
day.  And  it  is  to  be  added  that  even  the  unpre- 
tentious freedom  of  his  ordinary  manner  has  a  value 
in  its  place  by  way  of  relief  and  contrast. 

A  signal  instance  of  both  qualities  may  be  found 
in  the  scene  which  lays  the  corner-stone  of  Guy 
Mannering^^xh^  denunciation  of  the  landowner  and 
magistrate,    Bertram  of   Ellangowan,   by  the  gipsy 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  249 

witch,  Meg  Merrilies.  The  little  band  to  which  she 
belongs;  after  having  been  protected  and  encouraged 
for  many  generations  in  a  precarious  settlement 
upon  Bertram's  estate,  have  now  been  expelled,  in 
a  capricious  fit  of  reform,  by  the  summary  process 
of  pulling  down  their  miserable  tenements.  The 
author  of  this  improvement,  little  content  with  his 
severity,  absents  himself  on  the  day  of  execution ; 
but  as  he  rides  home,  he  meets  the  emigrant 
families  in  painful  procession  upon  the  confines  of 
his  property.  To  the  sufferers  his  act  naturally 
appears  tyrannous,  a  provocation  of  the  higher 
powers  of  providential  justice ;  nor  is  it  beyond 
common  reckoning  to  divine  that,  in  a  country  and 
among  a  population  not  very  orderly,  the  defiance 
of  such  enemies  may  lead  to  disaster.  Of  such 
feelings  and  prognostications,  raised  to  the  tone  of 
prophecy  by  the  ambiguous  pretensions  of  a  witch- 
wife,  Meg  Merrilies  makes  herself  the  voice.  The 
sequel  of  the  story  turns,  as  will  be  remembered, 
upon  the  fulfilment  of  her  prophecy,  to  which,  in 
the  natural  course  of  things,  she  contributes  a  great 
and,  in  the  end,  a  dominant  influence.  The  con- 
ception of  her  character  is  the  key  to  the  whole 
design'pand  here,  in  the  scene  of  the  prophecy,  is 
the  leading  note  upon  which  the  whole  depends. 

The  chapter  (viii)  containing  it  will  throughout 
repay  sttrdy;  but  for  our  present  purpose  we  may 
begin  with  the  two  paragraphs  which  immediately 
precede  the  denunciation  itself  The  first  gives 
the  psychology  of  the  situation,  describing,  without 


250  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

affectation  of  subtlety,  the  uncomfortable  feelings  of 
the  magistrate,  who  has  just  undergone,  from  the 
passing  caravan,  the  novel  experience  of  resentment 
and  hatred. 

"His  sensations  were  bitter  enough.  The  race,  it  is  true, 
^  which  he  had  thus  summarily  dismissed  from  their  ancient  place 
of  refuge,  was  idle  and  vicious ;  but  had  he  endeavoured  to  render 
them  otherwise?  They  were  not  more  irregular  characters  now 
than  they  had  been  while  they  were  admitted  to  consider  them- 
selves as  a  sort  of  subordinate  dependents  of  his  family.... Some 
means  of  reformation  ought  at  least  to  have  been  tried  before 
sending  seven  families  at  once  upon  the  wide  world,  and  depriving 
them  of  a  degree  of  countenance  which  withheld  them  at  least 
from  atrocious  guilt.  There  was  also  a  natural  yearning  of  heart 
on  parting  with  so  many  known  and  familiar  faces;  and  to  this 
feeling  Godfrey  Bertram  was  peculiarly  accessible,  from  the  limited 
qualities  of  his  mind,  which  sought  its  principal  amusements 
among  the  petty  objects  around  him.  As  he  was  about  to  turn 
his  horse's  head  to  pursue  his  journey,  Meg  Merrilies,  who  had 
lagged  behind  the  troop,  unexpectedly  presented  herself." 

^-^'     Manifestly  we  have  here  no  research  of  style,. 

y^  "  no    style   at   all "    in   the   sense   which    the  word 

"style"   has   for  the  critic  or  the  conscious  artist. 

In    vocabulary,    phrasing,    the    cast    and    turn    of 

sentences,  there  is  as  little  character  and  stamp  as 

the  individuality  of  authorship  may  well  admit.      If 

anything  is  to  be  praised,  it  is  a  certain  plain  gravity, 

proceeding  partly  from  this  very  absence  of  pose. 

I      And  there  are  negligences  which  are  almost  faults. 

I      "To  render  them  otherwise...  ;  depriving  them  of  a 

I      degree  of  countenance...  ;  from,  the  limited  qualities 

I      of  his  mind...  ;    to  turn  his  horses  head  to  pursue 

f      his  journey...''  \   these  and  other  phrases  might  be 


The  Pilose  of  Walter  Scott  251 

improved,  and  would  not  have  satisfied  a  punctilious 
composer.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no 
hitch,  nothing  to  stumble  at,  and  we  are  put  without 
strain  in  full  possession  of  the  meaning. 

The  next  paragraph  is  much  more  important 
and  characteristic,  and,  as  a  composition,  is  both 
better  and  worse.  It  contains  what  for  Scott,  in 
such  a  situation  as  this,  was  essentially  significant — 
the  stage-directions,  so  to  speak,  for  setting  the 
group  and  scene  in  preparation  for  the  coming 
effect.  Stage-directions  we  may  well  call  them,  for 
it  is  actually  to  the  theatre  that  the  author  has  gone, 
as  he  often  did,  for  inspiration  ;  and  later,  at  the 
crowning  moment  of  the  scene,  he  refers  us  to  the 
source  from  which  he  has  drawn  :  "  Margaret  of  | 
Anjou "  (he  says),  "bestowing  on  her  triumphant  ' 
foes  her  keen-edged  malediction,  could  not  have  ' 
turned  from  them  with  a  gesture  more  proudly 
contemptuous."  From  the  mind  of  Scott  Shake- 
speare was  never  far ;  and  with  Henry  the  Sixth, 
especially  the  final  scenes,  the  figure  of  Meg 
Merrilies  is  more  than  once  associated \  The 
particular  passage  to  which  he  directs  us  we  will 
presently  quote,  for  it  is  even  more  pertinent  than 
his  words  imply.  But  for  the  moment  we  note 
only,  as  a  fact,  his  theatrical  prepossession,  and  now 
present  in  this  light  what  we  are  justified  in  calling 
his  stage-directions  :  </ 

"  She  was  standing  upon  one  of  those  high  precipitous  banks 
which,  as  we  before  noticed,  overhung  the  road ;  so  that  she  was 

^  See  the  motto  to  chapter  liv. 


y 


252  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

placed  considerably  higher  than  Ellangowan,  even  though  he  was 
on  horseback ;  and  her  tall  figure,  relieved  against  the  clear  blue 
sky,  seemed  almost  of  supernatural  stature.  We  have  noticed 
that  there  was  in  her  general  attire,  or  rather  in  her  mode  of 
adjusting  it,  somewhat  of  a  foreign  costume,  artfully  adopted 
perhaps  for  the  purpose  of  adding  to  the  effect  of  her  spells  and 
predictions,  or  perhaps  from  some  traditional  notions  respecting 
the  dress  of  her  ancestors.  On  this  occasion  she  had  a  large 
piece  of  red  cotton  cloth  rolled  about  her  head  in  the  form  of  a 
turban,  from  beneath  which  her  dark  eyes  flashed  with  uncommon 
lustre.  Her  long  and  tangled  black  hair  fell  in  elf-locks  from  the 
folds  of  this  singular  head-gear.  Her  attitude  was  that  of  a  sibyl 
in  frenzy,  and  she  stretched  out  in  her  right  hand  a  sapling  bough, 
which  seemed  just  pulled." 

'.■  Considering  this  from  a  practical  point  of  view, 
^^  as  a  catalogue  of  points  which  the  reader  is  to  focus 
as  a  preparation  of  the  eye  for  the  delivery  of  the 
tirade  that  follows,  we  may  pronounce  it  beyond 
improvement.  Nothing  is  neglected  or  slurred ; 
posture  and  colours,  properties  and  accessories, 
suggestions,  duly  vague,  of  history  or  literature,  all 
is  prescribed  :  the  least  lively  imagination  must  be 
ready  to  work  on  such  terms,  and  the  tableau  could 
be  set,  one  almost  fancies  that  it  could  be  painted, 
by  an  amateur.  But  for  style — the  conscious  stylist 
might  say  again  that  there  is  none.  The  whole 
method  is  the  very  negation  of  art,  in  so  far  as  art 
is  said  to  lie  in  the  concealment  of  the  mechanical 
process.  Stevenson,  for  example,  would  have  can- 
celled a  chapter,  and  that  not  once  but  twice  or 
thrice,  sooner  than  leave  such  a  paragraph  in  such 
a  state.  He  actually  cited  another  passage  of  Guy 
Mannering,  and  might  have  cited  this,  for  proof  of 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  253 

his  master's   indifference   to   such   scruples   as  con- 
sumed his  own  days  and  weeks.     Scott  wants,  at 
this  moment,  certain  details  of  scenery  and  costume  ; 
and    with    perfect   simplicity    he    now   recapitulates 
them,  or  now  puts  them  in.     They  ought,  perhaps, 
to  be  ready  beforehand  ;  or  at  least  that  is  the  more 
artistic  way,  the  way  of  Stevenson,  and  of  Dumas 
when  he  is  on  his  mettle.     The  points  might  have 
been    so    touched   and   emphasized   before,    that   to 
collect   them    now   would   be   needless.      But   Scott 
will  not  be  troubled  with  anything  so   unpractical. 
"  Those   high   precipitous   banks,"  which   overhang 
the    road,    "  we    before    noticed^'    says    the    author. 
"  Banks  "  we  may  have  noticed.     That  they  should 
be  high  and  steep  he  himself  has  not  before  seen  ; 
but  as  height  now  proves  to  be  necessary,  he  simply 
raises    them.     The    "clear    blue    sky"    is   similarly 
imported,  and  without  the  least  preparation.     The 
red  turban  comes  rightly  enough,  and,  as  a  property, 
is  of  the  best ;  but  it  is  put  in  with  so  much  fumbling 
— we  have  noticed... or  rather... or  perhaps... on  this 
occasion — that  we  seem  to  be  watching  a  sketcher 
while  he  changes  his  brushes  for  a  tint. 

From  these  two  paragraphs,  taken  separately 
or  singly,  no  one,  we  suppose,  could  receive  direct 
pleasure  ;  and  if  the  history  of  literature  has  any 
lessons,  assuredly  no  such  work  would,  by  itself, 
have  roused  the  admiration  of  the  world.  The 
effect  of  it  all  is  just  to  excite  expectation,  which,  as 
the  literary  novice  is  warned  by  Horace,  is  a  very 
dangerous  thing  to  do.      But  Scott  will  have  it  so. 


254  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

and  he  is  not  even  yet  content.  He  has  posed  and 
painted  his  performer,  and  now,  before  she  speaks, 
he  insists  on  defining  the  effect : 

"  '  I'll  be  d d,'  said  the  groom,  '  if  she  has  not  been  cutting 

the  young  ashes  in  the  Dukit  park  ! '  The  Laird  made  no  answer, 
but  continued  to  look  at  the  figure  which  was  thus  perched  above 
his  path." 

Now  this  is  all  very  well,  but  what  is  to  come  of 
it  ?  "  How  is  this  big-mouthed  promise  to  be  kept  ?" 
"Quid  dignum  tanto  feret  hie  promissor  hiatu  .? " 
You  may  protest  that  you  have  imagined  something 
really  most  impressive,  and  may  invoke  in  attesta- 
tion the  most  august  memories  of  art  and  religion — 
Delphi  and  Avernus,  tragedy  and  epic,  Cassandra 
and  Deiphobe  ;  but,  given  your  sibyl,  what  will  you 
make  her  say  ? 

" '  Ride  your  ways,'  said  the  gipsy,  '  ride  your  ways,  Laird  of 
Ellangowan — ride  your  ways,  Godfrey  Bertram  !  This  day  have 
ye  quenched  seven  smoking  hearths — see  if  the  fire  in  your  ain 
parlour  burn  the  blither  for  that.  Ye  have  riven  the  thack  off 
seven  cottar  houses — look  if  your  ain  roof-tree  stand  the  faster. 
Ye  may  stable  your  stirks  in  the  shealings  at  Derncleugh— see 
that  the  hare  does  not  couch  on  the  hearthstane  at  Ellangowan. 
Ride  your  ways,  Godfrey  Bertram — what  do  ye  glower  after  our 
folk  for?  There's  thirty  hearts  there  that  wad  hae  wanted  bread 
ere  ye  had  wanted  sunketsS  and  spent  their  life-blood  ere  ye  had 
scratched  your  finger.  Yes— there's  thirty  yonder,  from  the  auld 
wife  of  an  hundred  to  the  babe  that  was  born  last  week,  that  ye 
have  turned  out  o'  their  bits  o'  bields,  to  sleep  with  the  tod  and 
the  blackcock  in  the  muirs  !  Ride  your  ways,  Ellangowan  !  Our 
bairns  are  hinging  at  our  weary  backs — look  that  your  braw 
cradle  at  hame  be  the  fairer  spread  up ;  not  that  I  am  wishing  ill 

^  Delicacies. 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  255 

to  little  Harry,  or  to  the  babe  that's  yet  to  be  born — God  forbid 
— and  make  them  kind  to  the  poor,  and  better  folk  than  their 
father ! — And  now,  ride  e'en  your  ways ;  for  these  are  the  last 
words  ye'U  ever  hear  Meg  Merrilies  speak,  and  this  is  the  last  ^ 

reise^  that  I'll  ever  cut  in  the  bonny  woods  of  Ellangowan.'  ^r 

*'  So  saying,  she  broke  the  sapling  she  held  in  her  hand  and 
flung  it  into  the  road." 

What  wonder  if  the  world  sat  up  to  listen !  To 
praise  such  a  composition  would  be  superfluous 
indeed,  and  I  cite  it  for  no  such  purpose.  A  man 
who  could  miss  or  mistake  the  impression,  would  be 
beyond  instruction  by  words.  But  there  may  be 
some  interest  and  profit,  especially  in  view  of  what 
is  said — and  said  truly,  if  rightly  applied — about 
Scott's  neglect  of  style,  in  examining  this  passage 
in  detail,  and  exhibiting  some  part  of  its  almost 
incredible  fidelity  to  rule.  We  know  that  Guy 
Mannering  was  written  at  full  speed,  and  not  even 
the  plan  of  it  laid  out  beforehand.  There  is  no 
reason,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  to  except  from  this 
record  the  present  passage,  or  other  such  points  of 
high  light,  which  make  the  whole  what  it  is.  But 
after  all,  that  only  means  that  the  true  preparation 
had  been  immeasurable.  Years  of  training,  now 
among  books,  now  in  the  walks  of  men,  had  wrought 
the  sensitive  ear  and  brain  to  such  consummate 
readiness  that,  when  the  call  came,  the  pen  ran 
headlong  without  a  trip,  and,  at  the  utmost  speed, 
put  in  strokes  which  challenge  the  microscope. 

A  single  instance  will  prove  this,  and  may  tempt 

'  Sapling  branch. 


256  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

us  perhaps  to  look  further.  The  substance,  the 
kernel  of  the  prophetic  menace,  is  resumed  in  the 
repeated  parallel  between  past  and  future.  "  As 
you  have  done,  so  it  shall  be  done  to  you,"  says  the 
oracle  over  and  over  again.  Loss  for  loss,  violence 
to  the  violent,  your  house,  your  family,  for  those 
that  you  have  torn  from  their  place.  "  This  day 
have  ye  quenched  seven  smoking  hearths — see  if 
the  fire  in  your  own  parlour  burn  the  blither  for 
that."  Thrice  the  same  parallel  is  repeated,  hearth 
and  fire,  thatch  and  roof,  Derncleugh  and  Ellan- 
gowan ;  thrice,  but  each  time  with  a  slight  variation 
in  the  phrase — ^' see  if  the  fire..."  ''look  if  your 
roof..."  ''see  that  the  hare...."  A  trick  to  avoid 
monotony  }  Is  that  all  ?  It  does  this  indeed  ;  but 
it  lays  the  way,  it  provides  the  chance,  for  some- 
thing far  more  important.  "See  if  ...look  if, ...see 
that...'';  the  ear  is  left  expectant,  as  in  a  rimed 
quatrain  which  should  stop  at  the  third  line.  Was 
the  composer  designing  this  ?  Was  he  aware  of  it  } 
Not  in  his  fingers,  nor  in  the  driving-wheels  of  his 
brain.  But  deep  down,  somewhere  within  him,  was 
an  engine  or  other  organ  which  was  awake  and  fore- 
feeling,  which  knew  that,  in  the  natural  harmony  of 
passion,  we  must  come  back  to  this  major  chord, 
and  that  a  place  should  be  kept  for  the  return.  And 
therefore,  when  we  do  return,  our  composer,  so 
negligent  of  style,  fails  not  to  finish  the  quatrain 
with  the  missing  form:  "Our  bairns  are  hinging 
at  our  weary  backs — look  that  your  braw  cradle 
at  hame  be  the  fairer  spread  up  " — ,  achieves  this 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  257 

exquisite   precision  at  full  stride,   and   leaves   cor- 
rection dumb. 

Endless  are  the  observations  of  this  kind  with 
which  we  may  amuse  ourselves  if  we  please.  There 
is,  for  one  thing,  the  severe  purity  of  the  vocabulary, 
so  absolutely  English  (or  Scotch  if  you  like,  anyhow 
German,  Teutonic)  that  the  flavour  even  of  French 
origin — as  in  parlour^  couch,  sunkets — is  instantly 
noted  for  foreign,  unhomely,  and  tells  with  the 
intended  touch  of  mislike.  It  is  here,  I  think, 
rather  than  in  the  mere  gain  of  an  extra  key-board, 
that  Scott  gets  advantage  from  his  dialect. 

Then  again,  what  a  feeling  has  Scott  for  the 
strong  parts  of  English,  the  grand,  long  mono- 
syllables, which  are  so  carefully  collected  and  placed 
by  Milton.  ''Ride  your  ways,''  said  the  gipsy  ;  and 
in  what  other  tongue  could  she  have  condensed  her 
point — luxury,  pride,  domination,  defied  and  bidden 
go  to  their  own  end — into  three  such  sounds  as 
these  ? 

Equally  remarkable,  perhaps  even  more  so,  if 
judged  by  the  prevalent  laxity  of  English  rhetoric, 
is  the  faultless  structure  of  the  speech,  the  perfect 
attainment  of  that  symmetry  without  stiffness  which 
makes  a  frame  organic.  In  this  respect  especially 
Scott  surpasses  the  Elizabethan  poet  to  whom,  as 
we  saw,  he  acknowledges  his  debt  for  a  hint.  The 
analogy  to  the  situation  of  the  Lancastrian  Queen 
whose  young  Edward  is  killed  in  her  presence  by 
the  princes  of  York,  is  but  remote  ;  but  the  two 
maledictions  coincide  in  the  fundamental  idea  that 

V.  L.  E.  17 


258  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

cruelty  to  victims  of  tender  age  will  be  visited  upon 
the  infants  of  the  offender  : 

"O  traitors,  murderers! 
"They  that  stabbed  Caesar  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame, 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by  to  equal  it : 
He  was  a  man ;  this,  in  respect,  a  child : 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child. 
What's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name  it? 
No,  no,   my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak, 
And  I  will  speak,  that  so  my  heart  may  burst. 
Butchers  and  villains  !    bloody  cannibals  ! 
How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropped ! 
You  have  no  children,  butchers !   if  you  had, 
The  thought  of  them  would  have  stirred  up  remorse; 
But  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 
Look  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off 
As,  deathsmen,  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young  prince  ^ !  " 

For  a  tragedy-queen  this  is  well  enough,  and, 
regarded  merely  as  rhetoric,  it  is  much  upon  the 
average  level  of  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean 
theatre.  Those  poets  were  seldom  careful  of 
structure,  and  their  precedent  has  been  only  too 
well  followed  by  our  dramatic  composers  since.  But 
the  tirade  so  ill  bears  comparison  with  that  of  Meg 
Merrilies  that,  if  Scott  were  capable  of  a  trick,  he 
might  be  suspected  of  wishing  us  to  remark  his 
triumph  over  what  passes  for  Shakespeare.  And 
the  weakness  of  the  one  speech,  as  contrasted  with 
the  other,  lies  chiefly  in  the  want  of  structure,  of 
rhetorical  frame.  Here  Scott's  craft  is  supreme, 
good  enough  for  Racine,  Euripides,  or  the  Homer  of 

'  Henry  VI,  in,  v,  5. 


The  Pi'ose  of  Walter  Scott  259 

the  Ninth  Iliad.  Commentary  upon  such  technique 
is  apt  to  be  unconvincing  unless  exhaustive,  and  if 
exhaustive,  to  be  tiresome.  But  let  one  point  serve 
for  all.  Take  the  triplet,  which  sets  the  text,  as 
it  were,  to  be  developed:  '^ Ride  your  ways,... ride 
your  ways,  Laird  of  Ellangowan — ride  your  ways, 
Godfrey  Bertram  !  "  Here  we  have  three  forms  of 
address,  one  anonymous,  then  the  territorial  title, 
and  last  the  personal  name.  Observe  then,  first, 
that  exactly  these  three,  and  no  more,  recur  as  head- 
notes  for  the  divisions  that  follow.  Next  observe 
that  they  recur  in  the  reverse  order:  '' Ride  your 
ways,  Godfrey  Bertraifi Ride  your  ways,  Ellan- 
gowan  And  now,  ride  een  your  ways,..."  with  the 

result,  a  result  vital  to  the  purpose,  that  we  know 
by  ear  and  instinct  when  to  expect  the  close,  and 
thus  the  thrill  of  the  dismissal  gets  a  reverberation 
from  our  simple  pleasure  in  not  being  disappointed 
of  our  count.  And  observe,  lastly  and  most  care-  | 
fully,  that  the  distinction  between  title  and  name,  the  j 
Laird  and  the  man,  "  Ellangowan  "  and  "  Bertram,"  \ 
proves  significant.  For  this  we  might  hope  ;  count 
upon  it  we  could  not ;  but  we  get  it,  and  are  pleased 
in  proportion  to  the  rareness  of  such  fidelity  to 
poetic  promise.  When  the  former  friend  of  the 
gipsies  is  to  be  reminded  that  he  has  thrown  away 
the  affection  of  his  dependents,  he  is  "  Godfrey 
Bertram";  but  he  is  "Ellangowan,"  when  the 
misery  of  their  homelessness  is  to  be  contrasted 
with  the  pride  and  comfort  of  his  house:  ''Ride 
your  ways,  Ellangowan.     Our  bairns  are  hinging  at 

17 — 2 


26o  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

our  weary  backs ;    look  that  your  draw  cradle  at 
hame  be  the  fairer  spread  up!' 

And  beyond  all  this,  deeper  and  more  vital  yet, 
lie  the  effects  of  sound  and  of  rhythm.  It  is  a  little 
matter,  perhaps,  that  the  more  commonplace  uses  of 
echo  and  repetition — "  burn  the  blither  " . . . "  stable 
your  stir ks'\..'' wad  hae  wanted  bread  ere  ye  had 
wanted'' — are  used,  and  are  forborne,  with  rare 
economy.  But  it  is  no  little  matter,  it  is  rather  the 
very  essence  of  poetry,  when  the  paired  sounds 
touch,  just  touch  without  crossing,  the  confine  of 
sobs  :  "  What  do  ye  glower  after  our  folk  for  ?  "... 
"the  wife  and  the  babe,  that  ye  have  turned  out  o' 
their  bits  d  bields" ...''  God... make  them  kind  to  the 
poor,  and  better  folk  than  their  father."  Pathos 
with  dignity  can  do  no  more. 

From  sound  to  rhythm  is  perhaps  scarcely  a 
distinguishable  transition  ;  but  it  is  from  the  rhythm 
of  this  passage,  from  the  melody  proper,  that,  for 
my  own  part,  I  get  the  greatest  delight.  Here 
again  there  is  no  end  to  the  possible  remarks. 
Most  obvious  is  a  device  which  is  a  favourite  with 
Burke;  though,  when  I  say  "device,"  I  do  not 
mean  that  Burke  always,  or  perhaps  ever,  thought 
of  it.  The  consciousness  of  the  artist  is  generally 
an  open  question.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  trick  is 
this.  Everybody  who  takes  lessons  in  English 
prose-composition  soon  gets  a  warning  "to  avoid 
I  blank  verse."  The  precept  is  sound  and  important. 
That  rhythm,  from  its  familiarity,  easily  catches  the 
ear ;  in  prose  it  is  mostly  purposeless  ;  and  nothing 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  261 

is  more  vexatious  than  rhythm  without  a  purpose. 
But  regularity  is  the  ground  of  variation,  and  the 
supreme  end  of  artistic  rules  is  to  be  broken  with 
proper  effect.  Here,  in  our  speech,  the  blank-verse 
rhythm  is  scrupulously  excluded.  Not  any  group 
of  words  suggests  it,  except  one,  where  it  is  strongly 
marked.  "  Our  bairns  are  hinging  at  our  weary 
backs "  is  a  verse  of  five  accents,  and  a  good  one  ; 
better,  I  should  say,  than  any  of  Queen  Margaret's 
in  the  play.  And  as  any  one  may  see  at  a  glance, 
it  is  placed  as  it  should  be,  where,  by  a  slight  touch 
of  pomp,  it  sustains  the  complaint  of  the  vagabond 
above  the  suspicion  of  mendicancy. 

Many  other  like  delicacies  there  are ;  indeed 
every  clause  and  phrase  will  bear  and  repay  exami- 
nation.    But  the  best  of  all  is  kept  for  the  close  : 

"  And  now,  ride  e'en  your  ways ;  for  these  are  the  last  words 
ye'll  ever  hear  Meg  Merrilies  speak,  and  this  is  the  last  reise  that 
I'll  ever  cut  in  the  bonny  woods  of  EUangowan." 

Here  are  two  points  principally  to  remark.  It 
cannot  escape  notice  that,  for  some  reason,  the 
introduction  of  the  speaker's  name,  "Meg  Merrilies," 
is  here  strangely  impressive,  and  that  the  sentence 
seems  to  hinge  and  to  swing  upon  it.  Every  one 
perceives  this ;  and  the  cause,  though  less  obvious, 
may  be  ascertained.  We  have  already  noted  that 
the  vocabulary  of  the  speech,  as  is  usual  with  Scott 
on  such  occasions,  is  extremely  simple,  and  almost 
exclusively  English  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the 
name.  Now  this  vocabulary,  with  many  merits, 
has,  for  the  composer,  some  defects,  and  not  least 


262  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

among  them  this — that,  consisting  almost  wholly  of 
monosyllables  and  dissyllables,  it  supplies  hardly 
ever  a  succession  of  syllables,  not  even  so  much  as 
a  pair,  absolutely  without  accent,  and  therefore  falls 
naturally  into  an  up-and-down  jog,  without  those 
pleasant  trisyllabic  movements  which  in  prosody 
are  called  dactylic.  Introduce  the  elements  which, 
in  later  times,  our  writers  borrowed  from  Latin, 
and  dactyls  (or  rather  quasi-dactyls)  spring  up  in 
abundance — irregular,  accessible,  limited,  principal, 
precipitous,  general,  singular — these,  and  more, 
may  be  picked  from  the  paragraphs,  written  in  the 
common  language  of  literature,  which  precede  the 
speech  of  the  gipsy,  and  have  been  cited  above. 
But  in  the  speech  itself,  nothing  of  the  sort.  With 
the  vocabulary  of  the  gipsy,  the  thing  is  hardly 
possible.  Such  combinations  as  ''what  do  ye'' 
''wife  of  an,''  ''babe  that  was,"  are  the  nearest 
approach  ;  and  they  differ  materially  in  rhythm  from 
principal  or  singular.  But  in  "  Meg  Merrilies  "  we 
do  get  an  English  triplet,  the  sole  triplet  of  syllables 
within  one  word  which  the  speech  presents  ;  and 
Scott,  with  an  instinct  sharpened  by  practice,  seizes 
upon  this  by-gift  of  his  own  invention  to  swing  off 
the  finale  with  the  desirable  roll. 

Partly  alike  is  the  music  of  the  last  words,  alike 
in  this,  that  in  the  proper  name  "  Ellangowan  "  we 
have  again  a  valuable  element  seldom  provided 
by  pure  English — a  quadrisyllable  with  two  equal 
accents,  our  nearest  equivalent  for  the  double 
trochee,  such  as  comprobavit,  so  beloved  by  pupils 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  263 

of  Cicero.  It  is  the  only  such  form  in  the  speech. 
But  here  we  have  another  thing  to  note.  However 
well  we  may  love  our  native  tongue,  we  must  allow 
that,  as  compared  with  some  others,  or  with  almost 
any  other,  its  word-groups  are  seldom  musical. 
You  cannot  have  everything  at  once.  Our  fathers 
chose  for  us  that  we  should  talk  mostly  in  mono- 
syllables, a  good  way,  but  not  musical.  The  collision 
of  hard  sounds  must  at  this  rate  be  incessant,  and 
very  harsh  collisions  will  hardly  be  kept  out.  Scott 
himself,  writing  pure  English,  cannot  avoid  them, 
and  wisely  does  not  try,  for  the  constriction  of  such 
a  rule  would  be  deadly.  But  the  result  is  what 
it  must  be,  a  "music"  bad  or  poor.  No  one, 
I  suppose,  will  say  that,  taken  as  mere  sound,  there 
is  any  pleasure  in  such  combinations  as  quenched 
seven  smoking  hearths,  ...at  Derncleugh, . . . hearth- 
stane, . .  .scratched, . .  .and  the  blackcock, . .  .babe  that's, . . . 
and  the  like  everywhere.  There  is  no  help  for  it. 
But  what  then  is  the  artist  to  do  ?  Why,  do  like 
an  artist,  turn  stones  to  stepping-stones — offer,  at 
some  chosen  place,  the  good  gift  which  will  take 
more  value  from  his  very  poverty.  The  close  of 
the  speech,  the  last  sentence,  runs  almost  without 
a  trip,  and  the  final  clause,  as  a  bit  of  prosody, 
might  challenge  Italian  or  Greek  : 

"And  this  is  the  last  reise  that  I'll  ever  cut  in  the  bonny  woods 
of  Ellangowan." 

With  Scott,  as  with  all  artists  in  English,  the 
contrast  between  the  various  elements  in  our  hetero- 
geneous lexicon,  the  mixture  and  opposition  of  them, 


264  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

is  a  main  principle.  Most  often,  as  in  the  case  of 
Meg  Merrilies,  he  recurs  for  solemnity  to  the  pure 
Teutonic,  fashioning  of  course  his  personages  ac- 
cordingly. The  reader  will  expect  here  the  pleasure 
of  comparing  Meg's  malediction  with  its  not  less 
admirable  pendant,  the  gipsy's  farewell  to  Dern- 
cleugh.  I  will  cite  it  therefore,  but  spare  my 
comment,  which,  after  what  has  been  said,  will 
easily  be  conceived  and  supplied  : 

"  She  then  moved  up  the  brook  until  she  came  to  the  ruined 
hamlet,  where,  pausing  with  a  look  of  peculiar  and  softened 
interest  before  one  of  the  gables  which  was  still  standing,  she 
said,  in  a  tone  less  abrupt,  though  as  solemn  as  before :  '  Do  you 
see  that  blackit  and  broken  end  of  a  sheeling  ? — There  my  kettle 
boiled  for  forty  years — there  I  bore  twelve  buirdly  sons  and 
daughters.  Where  are  they  now? — Where  are  the  leaves  that 
were  on  that  auld  ash-tree  at  Martinmas? — the  west  wind  has 
made  it  bare — and  I'm  stripped  too. — Do  you  see  that  saugh- 
tree  ? — it's  but  a  blackened,  rotten  stump  now — I've  sat  under  it 
mony  a  bonnie  summer  afternoon,  when  it  hung  its  gay  garlands 
ower  the  poppling  water — I've  sat  there,  and '  (elevating  her  voice) 
'  I've  held  you  on  my  knee,  Henry  Bertram,  and  sung  ye  sangs 
of  the  auld  barons  and  their  bloody  wars.  It  will  ne'er  be  green 
again,  and  Meg  Merrilies  will  never  sing  sangs  mair,  be  they 
blithe  or  sad.  But  ye'll  no  forget  her  ? — and  ye'll  gar  big  up  the 
auld  wa's  for  her  sake  ? — and  let  somebody  live  there  that's  ower 
guid  to  fear  them  of  another  world.  For  if  ever  the  dead  came 
back  amang  the  living,  I'll  be  seen  in  this  glen  mony  a  night  after 
these  crazed  banes  are  in  the  mould.' " 

With  the  imported  parts  of  our  language,  im- 
ported chiefly  from  Latin,  as  well  as  with  the 
primitive  parts,  Scott  could  make  masterly  play 
when  he  chose.     An  example  is  to  be  found  in  that 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  265 

incomparable  story  which  makes  a  detached  episode 
in  Redgauntlet,  under  the  title  of  "Wandering 
WilHe's  Tale."  Stevenson  in  Gx/rzb^d:  has  testified 
his  admiration  of  it  by  exerting  his  utmost  strength 
to  produce  a  parallel,  and  with  as  much  success  as 
could  be  hoped.  One  cannot  mention  Scott's  story, 
even  for  the  purpose  of  technical  illustration,  without 
turning  aside  to  praise  its  general  excellence.  In 
its  kind  it  has  perhaps  not  a  rival  in  English  litera- 
ture or  anywhere  else.  To  tell,  and  to  refute  in  the 
telling,  a  legend  of  the  supernatural,  is  an  ancient 
and  popular  trick,  but  never  perhaps  has  been 
performed  with  such  delicate  balance  of  gravity  and 
humour.  In  substance  the  tale  is  simple.  A  certain 
landlord.  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet,  a  former  per- 
secutor of  the  Covenanters  (the  date  is  about  1 700), 
has  a  retainer  and  tenant  who  waits  upon  him  to 
pay  certain  arrears  of  rent.  In  the  midst  of  the 
business  the  Laird  is  taken  with  a  fit,  of  which 
he  almost  instantly  dies ;  and  the  debtor  in  the 
confusion  departs  without,  as  he  believes,  having 
got  a  receipt.  The  money  too  is  not  to  be  found, 
and  the  heir  demands  a  second  payment.  The 
honest  defaulter,  half  mad  with  despair  and  drink, 
wanders  at  night  to  the  grave  of  his  late  landlord  ; 
and  there,  after  a  dream  in  which  he  visits  the  dead 
man,  he  wakes  with  the  receipt  in  his  hand.  Pay- 
ment being  thus  proved,  the  disappearance  of  the 
money  is  soon  traced  to  the  theft  of  a  monkey 
which  was  present  at  the  time  of  the  transaction. 
With    singular  skill  and  power   Scott  shows  how, 


266  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

from  these  not  wonderful  incidents,  has  grown  in 
the  course  of  a  generation  an  awful  story  of  retribu- 
tion and  reward.  About  the  true  facts  there  is  no 
doubt.  To  establish  the  supernatural  version,  it 
would  of  course  be  essential  to  show  that  the  receipt 
was  ^ot,  and  not  merely  found,  by  the  debtor  on  the 
night  alleged,  that  is  to  say,  after  the  death  and 
burial  of  the  payee.  The  receipt  itself,  the  docu- 
ment, was  so  dated !  So  at  least  we  are  told  ;  but 
the  paper  was  immediately  destroyed !  Everything 
therefore  turns  on  the  question  whether  the  debtor 
took  such  a  paper  from  the  room  at  the  time  of  the 
payment,  or  whether,  as  he  supposed,  he  did  not. 
And  most  unfortunately  our  informant,  the  debtor's 
grandson,  actually  gives,  though  he  is  not  in  the 
least  aware  of  it,  two  accounts  of  the  transaction, 
which  differ  totally  at  the  critical  point.  The  thing 
is  a  delightful  example  of  Scott's  profound  acquaint- 
ance with  story-telling  men,  and  the  masterly  use 
which  he  made  of  it ;  and  the  passages  will  serve, 
as  well  as  any,  for  specimens  of  the  narrator's 
language  and  style.  Here  is  his  first  account  of 
the  payment : 

"  My  gudesire,  with  as  gude  a  countenance  as  he  could  put 
on,  made  a  leg,  and  placed  the  hag  of  money  on  the  table  wi'  a 
dash,  like  a  man  that  does  something  clever.  The  Laird  drew  it 
to  him  hastily — 'Is  it  all  here,  Steenie,  man?' 

" '  Your  honour  will  find  it  right,'  said  my  gudesire. 

"  '  Here,  Dougal,'  said  the  Laird,  'gie  Steenie  a  tass  of  brandy 
downstairs,  ////  I  count  the  siller  and  write  the  receipt.^ 

"  But  they  werena  weel  out  of  the  room  when  Sir  Robert  gied 
a  yelloch  that  garr'd  the  Castle  rock.     Back  ran  Dougal — in  flew 


The  Prose  of  Waller  Scott  267 

the  livery-men — yell  on  yell  gied  the  Laird,  ilk  ane  mair  awfu' 
than  the  ither.  My  gudesire  knew  not  whether  to  stand  or  flee, 
but  he  ventured  back  into  /he  par/our.... [His]  head  was  like  to 
turn.  He  forgot  baith  siller  and  receipt,  and  down  stairs  he 
banged,"  etc. 

Now  upon  this  showing  it  is  plain,  both  that  the 
receipt  could  easily  be  written,  and  that  the  debtor 
could  easily  take  it  away  unawares ;  and,  given 
these  facts,  no  reasonable  person  would  doubt  that 
the  whole  story  should  be  so  understood  and 
explained.  But  presently  *we  have  the  interview 
between  the  debtor  and  Sir  Robert's  heir  (Sir  John), 
when,  of  course,  the  circumstances  of  payment  have 
to  be  related  again,  as  accounting  for  the  absence 
of  proof.  And  behold,  they  are  completely  trans- 
formed !    The  narrator  thus  dramatises  the  dialogue  : 

"Stephen:  'Please  your  honour.  Sir  John,  I  paid  it  to  your 
father.' 

"Sir  John:  'Ye  took  a  receipt,  then,  doubtless,  Stephen; 
and  can  produce  it  ? ' 

"Stephen:  'Indeed,  /  hadna  time,  an  it  like  your  honour, 
for  nae  sooner  had  I  set  doun  the  siller,  and  just  as  his  honour, 
Sir  Robert,  that's  gaen,  drew  it  till  him  to  count  it,  and  write  out 
the  receipt,  he  was  ta'en  wV  the  pains  that  removed  him' " 

If  this  were  the  truth,  or  near  the  truth,  evidently 
the  receipt  could  not  be  written,  and  the  debtor 
knew,  by  the  witness  of  his  own  eyes,  that  it  never 
was.  But  here,  on  every  material  fact,  the  latter 
version  is  contradicted  by  the  first,  though  both  are 
given,  as  this  very  discrepancy  proves,  in  good  faith. 
That  Scott  perceived  the  flaw,  and  deliberately 
planned  it,  is  proved  (if  proof  be  wanted)  by  his 


268  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

providing  the  narrator  with  a  plausible  pretext  for 
giving,  or  rather  purporting  to  give,  the  second 
version,  the  erroneous  and  misleading,  in  the  form 
of  a  dramatic  dialogue,  reported  ipsissimis  verbis : 

"  I  have  heard  their  communings  so  often  tauld  ower,  that 
I  almost  think  I  was  there  mysell." 

Accordingly  he  describes  the  interview  exactly  as 
if  he  had  been  there,  and  at  the  very  point  where 
he  becomes  essentially  false,  becomes  also  (as  we 
see  in  the  quotation)  most  precise  and  positive  in 
form,  dropping  narration  altogether,  and  acting  each 
speaker  in  turn.  To  this  change  of  form  Scott 
emphatically  directs  attention,  actually  arresting  the 
story  at  this  point  and  inserting  a  comment,  by 
the  supposed  auditor,  upon  the  narrator's  dramatic 
talent.  At  a  first  reading,  or  a  second,  this  may 
appear  needless  or  cumbrous,  but  presently  we 
perceive  the  humour  of  it.  The  supposed  precision 
is  of  course  altogether  illusory,  and  merely  serves 
to  disguise  from  our  informant  the  fact  that,  as  can 
be  proved  out  of  his  own  mouth,  he  is  not  here 
reporting  the  incident  as  it  was  originally  told. 
Scott's  own  view  of  the  facts,  the  rationalistic  view, 
is  implied  clearly  enough  in  the  final  paragraph  of 
the  story,  and  indeed  throughout. 

We  have  not  space  to  compare  in  detail  Steven- 
son's rival  tale  of  the  Bass  Rock  (in  Catriona), 
though  the  comparison  would  be  full  of  interest. 
In  the  tone  of  the  two  there  is  this  important 
difference,  that  the  allegations  in  Stevenson's  tale 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  269 

cannot  possibly  be  resolved  into  common  incidents 
plus  involuntary  error.     When  we  are  told  that  at 
one   and   the    same    moment    several    persons  saw 
A.B.  dancing  (in  spirit)  at  one  place,  and  a  crowd 
of  other  persons  saw  him  lying  motionless  (in  body) 
many  miles  away,  we  are   driven  to  suppose  that 
either   the   facts   or   the   lies   are  abnormal.      Our 
choice  will  depend  on  our  opinion  of  the  witnesses 
and  our  general  theory  of  the  universe.    To  Frederic 
Myers  the  facts  in  the  "  Bass  Rock  "  story,  so  far  as 
I  have  yet  given  them,  seemed  abnormal  indeed,  but 
quite  natural.      Never  shall  I  forget  the  grave  and 
reproachful  tone  in  which,  talking  of  Catriona  soon 
after  its  appearance,  he  complained  of  Stevenson  for 
disfiguring  an  otherwise  legitimate   and  persuasive 
piece  of  imagination  by  the  "ridiculous"  addition, 
that  when  the  dancing  spirit  is  shot,  the  silver  coin 
with   which    the  gun   was  loaded,   is  found   in   the 
man's  body,  which  dies  at  the  same  moment  but — 
several  miles  away.     The  precise  boundary  between 
the  natural  and  the  ridiculous  is  sometimes  not  easy 
to  fix. 

However,  to  return  to  Scott,  such,  in  the  bare 
outline  and  in  general  style,  is  the  famous  tale  of 
Wandering  Willie.  But  if  there  were  no  more  to 
say  of  it,  if  it  rose  nowhere  above  the  level  which 
we  have  described,  it  would  be  good  indeed,  even 
so  perhaps  best  in  its  kind,  but  it  would  not  have 
the  sublimity  which  Scott  has  contrived  to  impart. 
This  depends  on  the  moral  source  of  the  legend, 
the  assurance  of  future  punishment  reserved  for  a 


270  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

persecutor  of  the  saints.  The  Sir  Robert  Red- 
gauntlet  of  the  story  was,  as  we  have  said,  an 
oppressor,  a  cruel  oppressor,  of  nonconformists  and 
recusants ;  and  his  tenant,  the  originator  of  the 
legend,  though  no  saint,  was  a  religious  man,  and 
had  no  doubt  whatever  of  his  master's  destiny  post 
mortem.  Accordingly,  in  his  dream  beside  the 
grave,  it  is  to  Hell  that  he  goes  for  the  receipt,  a 
Hell  which  is  also  and  at  the  same  time  Sir  Robert's 
own  house.  There  still,  there  again,  as  in  this 
world  often,  he  and  his  wicked  friends  are  holding 
such  feast  as  yet  they  may.  The  vision  is  pro- 
foundly moving  and  solemn,  and  from  it  is  diffused 
over  the  whole  narrative  a  strong  religious  enchant- 
ment, which  raises  what  otherwise  were  a  trifle  to 
the  level  of  Dante  and  Homer. 

Indeed,  I  have  such  a  reverence  for  this  episode, 
the  Hades  of  the  oppressors,  that  I  have  some 
scruple  in  touching  it  with  a  philological  finger. 
But  since  I  do  not  myself  find  in  such  remarks  any 
bar  to  emotion,  but  feel  the  poetic  achievement  only 
the  more  when  I  seem  to  perceive  the  means,  others, 
I  suppose,  may  feel  the  same ;  and  the  truth  is,  that 
the  effect  is  partly,  and  even  principally,  a  matter 
of  vocabulary.  The  strolling  fiddler,  Wandering 
Willie,  who  tells  the  tale,  is  by  birth  a  peasant,  and 
his  ordinary  language  is  not  very  far,  though  it 
differs,  from  that  of  Meg  Merrilies.  But  he  is  no 
gipsy.  He  has  had  the  regular  Presbyterian  train- 
ing and,  from  special  circumstances,  much  irregular 
education    besides.      He    has    notions    of    history. 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  271 

theology,  literature ;  and  especially,  like  all  good 
Scots,  he  knows  and  reverences  the  language  of  the 
preacher.  The  influence  of  it  may  be  traced  often, 
and  grows  when  he  begins  to  describe  his  grand- 
father's dream.  And  when  for  a  while  he  is  fully 
possessed  by  the  moral  and  religious  purport  of  the 
vision,  shade  by  shade  his  speech  takes  the  learned 
colours  of  the  pulpit,  French  and  Latin,  even  Greek, 
points  from  the  Pentateuch,  and  rhythms  modelled 
upon  the  Psalms.  You  will  hardly  find  anywhere 
a  finer  example  of  what  can  be  done  by  economy 
of  art  than  the  simple  effects  of  this  passage,  the 
unexpected  and  therefore  thrilling  note  of  such 
words  as  fierce,  savage,  dissolute,  beautiful,  contorted, 
melancholy.  And  finally,  this  far-away  spell  dies  out 
as  it  came  in,  and  we  sink  back  into  the  plainness 
of  the  vernacular.  Here  is  the  passage,  with  so 
much  of  the  context  as  will  suffice  to  show  these 
contrasts.  Coming  in  his  dream  to  Redgauntlet 
Castle,  the  debtor  is  received  there,  as  usual,  by 
Dougal  MacCallum,  Sir  Robert's  old  servant,  whose 
death,  be  it  remarked,  has  followed  close  on  that  of 
his  master : 

*'  *  Never  fash  yoursell  wi'  me,'  said  Dougal,  *  but  look  to 
yoursell ;  and  see  ye  tak  naething  frae  ony  body  here,  neither 
meat,  drink,  or  siller,  except  just  the  receipt  that  is  your  ain.' 

"So  saying,  he  led  the  way  out  through  halls  and  trances  that 
were  weel  kend  to  my  gudesire,  and  into  the  auld  oak  parlour ; 
and  there  was  as  much  singing  of  profane  sangs,  and  birling  of 
red  wine,  and  speaking  blasphemy  and  sculduddry,  as  had  ever 
been  in  Redgauntlet  Castle  when  it  was  at  the  blithest. 

"  But,  Lord  take  us  in  keeping,  what  a  set  of  ghastly  revellers 


272  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

they  were  that  sat  around  that  table ! — My  gudesire  kend  mony 
that  had  long  before  gane  to  their  place,  for  often  had  he  piped 
to  the  most  part  in  the  hall  of  Redgauntlet.  There  was  the  fierce 
Middleton,  and  the  dissolute  Rothes,  and  the  crafty  Lauderdale ; 
and  Dalyell,  with  his  bald  head  and  a  beard  to  his  girdle ;  and 
Earlshall,  with  Cameron's  blude  on  his  hand ;  and  wild  Bonshaw, 
that  tied  blessed  Mr  Cargill's  limbs  till  the  blude  sprung ;  and 
Dunbarton  Douglas,  the  twice-turned  traitor  baith  to  country  and 
king.  There  was  the  Bluidy  Advocate  MacKenyie,  who,  for  his 
worldly  wit  and  wisdom,  had  been  to  the  rest  as  a  god^  And 
there  was  Claverhouse,  as  beautiful  as  when  he  lived,  with  his 
long,  dark,  curled  locks,  streaming  down  over  his  laced  buff-coat, 
and  his  left  hand  always  on  his  right  spule-blade,  to  hide  the 
wound  that  the  silver  bullet  had  made.  He  sat  apart  from  them 
all,  and  looked  at  them  with  a  melancholy,  haughty  countenance ; 
while  the  rest  hallooed,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  that  the  room 
rang.  But  their  smiles  were  fearfully  contorted  from  time  to 
time ;  and  their  laugh  passed  into  such  wild  sounds  as  made  my 
gudesire's  very  nails  grow  blue,  and  chilled  the  marrow  in  his 
banes ^ 

"  They  that  waited  at  the  table  were  just  the  wicked  serving- 
men  and  troopers  that  had  done  their  work  and  cruel  bidding  on 
earth.  There  was  the  Lang  Lad  of  the  Nethertown,  that  helped 
to  take  Argyle ;  and  the  Bishop's  summoner,  that  they  called  the 
Deil's  Rattle-bag ;  and  the  wicked  guardsmen  in  their  laced  coats ; 
and  the  savage  Highland  Amorites,  that  shed  blood  like  water; 
and  mony  a  proud  serving-man,  haughty  of  heart  and  bloody  of 
hand,  cringing  to  the  rich,  and  making  them  wickeder  than  they 
would  be;  grinding  the  poor  to  powder,  when  the  rich  had 
broken  them  to  fragments.  And  mony,  mony  mair  were  coming 
and  ganging,  a'  as  busy  in  their  vocation  as  if  they  had  been 
alive."    • 

It  will  of  course  be  understood  that  Scott,  as 
a   manipulator   of  language,   is    not   to  be  praised 

1  Between  these  points  the  dialectic  forms  almost  totally 
disappear.     In  the  next  paragraph  they  gradually  reappear. 


The  Prose  of  Walt e 7'  Scott  273 

without  discrimination.  Not  only  is  he  often  care- 
less, sometimes  in  place  and  sometimes  very  much 
out  of  place,  but  a  certain  class  of  his  romances,  the 
so-called  "  historic,"  are  all  debased,  more  or  less, 
by  a  deplorable  amalgam,  which  he  compounded 
from  cuttings  of  every  kind  of  English  between 
Chaucer  and  Gray,  and  vended  as,  in  some  sort, 
the  style  of  chivalry.  Ivanhoe  and  The  Talisman, 
Quentin  Durward,  Nigel  even,  Woodstock,  Peveril 
and  others,  are  sown  more  or  less  liberally  with  this 
pernicious  flower.  It  pleased  the  day,  but  it  was 
a  bad  thing  and,  like  all  weeds,  was  fertile  :  it  has 
helped  to  make  some  of  the  worst  literature  that  we 
possess.  But  let  us  say  no  more  of  it.  It  has  little 
or  no  part  in  these  :  Guy  Manner ing,  The  Anti- 
quary, The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  Old  Mortality, 
Rob  Roy,  Redgauntlet,  The  Bride  of  Lanifnermoor, 
St  Ronans  Well,  and  within  this  round  one  may 
comfortably  circulate  without  end. 

St  Ronans  Well}  Yes,  assuredly,  St  Ronans 
Well.  It  has  defects;  it  is  not  such  a  masterpiece 
as  The  Bride.  The  elements,  comic  and  tragic,  are 
not  so  well  accommodated ;  and  Scott,  alas !  was 
persuaded,  almost  compelled,  by  his  publisher  to 
sacrifice  the  very  base  of  his  tragedy  to  the  concilia- 
tion of  the  vulgar,  who  were  not  won  nevertheless. 
But  the  story  is  fine,  and  the  strong  scenes — chapter 
XXIII  for  example,  or  chapter  xxxv — very  strong. 
And  they  will  supply  instances  of  the  power  and 
dignity  which  Scott,  when  he  chooses,  can  put 
even  into  the  artificial,  super-literary  English  which 

V,  L.  E.  18 


2  74  The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott 

he    inherited    from    the    eighteenth    century.      So 
here  : 

"'There  is  a  Heaven  above  us,  and  there  shall  be  judged 
our  actions  towards  each  other !  You  abuse  a  power  most 
treacherously  obtained — you  break  a  heart  that  never  did  you 
wrong — you  seek  an  alliance  with  a  wretch  who  only  wishes  to  be 
wedded  to  her  grave.  If  my  brother  brings  you  hither,  I  cannot 
help  it — and  if  your  coming  prevents  bloody  and  unnatural 
violence,  it  is  so  far  well.  But  by  my  consent  you  come  not; 
and  were  the  choice  mine,  I  would  rather  be  struck  with  life-long 
blindness  than  that  my  eyes  should  again  open  on  your  person — 
rather  that  my  ears  were  stuffed  with  the  earth  of  the  grave  than 
that  they  should  again  hear  your  voice.' " 

Or  here  : 


«'  <  I 


'  Oh  !  no — no — no  ! '  exclaimed  the  terrified  girl,  throwing 
herself  at  his  feet ;  '  do  not  kill  me,  brother !  I  have  wished 
for  death — thought  of  death — prayed  for  death — but,  oh  !  it  is 
frightful  to  think  that  he  is  near  ! — Oh  !  not  a  bloody  death, 
brother,  nor  by  your  hand  ! ' 

"  She  held  him  close  by  the  knees  as  she  spoke,  and  expressed 
in  her  looks  and  accents  the  utmost  terror.  It  was  not,  indeed, 
without  reason  ;  for  the  extreme  solitude  of  the  place,  the  violent 
and  inflamed  passions  of  her  brother,  and  the  desperate  circum- 
stances to  which  he  had  reduced  himself,  seemed  all  to  concur  to 
render  some  horrid  act  of  violence  not  an  improbable  termination 
of  this  strange  interview. 

"  Mowbray  folded  his  arms,  without  unclenching  his  hands, 
or  raising  his  head,  while  his  sister  continued  on  the  floor, 
clasping  him  round  the  knees  with  all  her  strength,  and  begging 
piteously  for  her  life  and  for  mercy. 

"  '  Fool ! '  he  said  at  last,  '  let  me  go  ! — Who  cares  for  thy 
worthless  life? — Who  cares  if  thou  live  or  die?  Live,  if  thou 
canst — and  be  the  hate  and  scorn  of  everyone  else,  as  much  as 
thou  art  mine.' ' 


The  Prose  of  Walter  Scott  275 

Extreme  solitude,  inflamed  passions,  improbable 
terminatioit — the  movemenc  of  the  narrative  is 
cumbrous  and  wordy.  But  it  is  strong ;  and  the 
stronger  notes  of  the  speeches  are  relieved  against 
it  with  discretion  and  temperature. 

In  conclusion  let  it  be  said,  though  it  is  perhaps 
needless,  that  I  do  not  here  pretend  to  estimate,  as 
a  whole,  the  merits  of  Scott's  work  as  a  romancer. 
Of  many  aspects,  and  these  the  most  important,  we 
have  said  little  or  nothing.      In  Guy  Mannering  the 
variety  and  coherence  of  the  topics,  in  Old  Moj'tality 
the  subtle  distinction   of  similar   idiosyncrasies,    in 
Rob    Roy   the    picturesque    backgrounds,    in    Red-      I. 
gauntlet    vigour    of    caricature,    in    the    Heai't    of     I 
Midlothiafi    a    perspective    of    society,    humour    in      | 
The  Antiquary,  horror  in  St  Ronans  Well,  and  all       I 
together  in  the  tragedy  of  Lammermoor — these  and       | 
other  qualities  are  doubtless  more  vital  than  style. 
But  without  style  they  would  not  have  achieved  the 
end.     Scott,  in  his  way  and  at  his  hours,  is  a  very 
great  stylist,   supreme  and  hardly  to  be  surpassed.       j 
His  manner  of  working,  his  profusion,  the  nature  of 
his  faults,  give  room  for  mistake  and  misrepresenta-      / 
tion  about  this  aspect  of  his  genius.     And  for  this     \ 
reason    it    may   not    have    been    amiss    to    bespeak     \ 
attention  to  the  form,  as  well  as  the  matter,  of  his      * 
prose.  I 


18—2 


"DIANA   OF  THE   CROSSWAYS^" 

"  Do  you  honestly  enjoy  this  book,  and,  if  so, 
what  in  it  pleases  you  ?  Does  your  enjoyment 
increase  as  you  study  it,  and  if  so,  through  what 
process  of  thought  ? "  Such  are  perhaps  the  ques- 
tions which  the  members  of  a  reading  union  should 
ask  themselves  upon  a  work  of  Mr  George  Meredith. 
To  presume  the  affirmative  answers — or,  worse,  to 
force  them — may  in  this  case  be  to  miss  the  best 
[      of  the  profit.     Some  art  is  strong  in  the  width  of 

1^'  its  appeal,  and  some  not  in  the  width,  but  in  the 
depth.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  satisfy  desires  that 
are  universal  or  common,  and  great  also,  whether 
more  or  less,  to  gratify  intensely  even  one  desire 
that  is  natural.  Disclaiming  all  pretentions  to  dic- 
tate, and  confessing,  or  rather  insisting,  that  others 
may  very  well  see  where  I  am  blind,  I  have  to  say 
for  myself  that  my  pleasure  in  Mr  Meredith  is,  if 
not  solely  of  one  kind,  yet  in  one  kind  intense 
beyond  expression,  and  otherwise  slight.  All  other 
things  that  belong  to  literature  the  English  reader 
may  find  more  easily,  if  not  in  better  quality,  else- 
where; but  of  one  thing,  in  which  English  writers 

^  This  essay  forms  one  of  a  series  on  George  Meredith's 
Novels  and  Poetry  contributed  by  various  writers  to  the  National 
Home-reading  Union. 


''Diana  of  the  Crossways^'  277 

as  a  class  are  singularly  poor,  he  may  find  in  Mr 
Meredith  such  a  store  as  was  hardly  ever,  I  verily 
believe,  dispensed  by  a  single  mind  since  writing 
began.  And  the  question  to  ask — once  more  let 
us  say  that  a  true  answer  is  not  to  be  given  with 
haste — is  whether  we  have,  or  wish  to  get,  an  appe- 
tite for  this  particular  food.  I  can  warrant  it  possible  \ 
for  a  man  to  read  The  Egoist  with  enjoyment  so  1 
often  that  he  literally  cannot  read  it  any  more,  be- 
cause he  knows,  before  turning,  the  contents  of  every 
page  ;  but  to  tell  any  one,  without  intimate  know- 
ledge of  his  constitution,  that  he  ought  to  admire 
The  Egoist  is,  as  likely  as  not,  to  say  that  he  ought 
to  be  a  humbug.  Given  a  person,  time,  and  place, 
we  may  say  of  certain  works  that  by  that  person 
they  ought  to  be  admired — at  least  in  this  sense, 
that,  not  admiring,  he  shows  a  dangerous  diverg- 
ence in  taste  and  faculty  from  the  type  of  man 
with  whom  he  will  have  to  deal.  But  for  England 
and  for  this  age  that  is  certainly  not  to  be  said  of 
Mr  Meredith.  What  may  safely  and  rightly  be 
said  is  that,  if  we  do  not  take  pains  to  appreciate 
him  so  far  as  may  be  possible  for  us,  we  miss  the  I 
best  chance  that  Englishmen  have,  or  ever  had,  to 
cultivate  a  valuable  faculty  which  is  of  all  least 
natural  to  us. 

This  faculty  is  wit — wit  in  the  sense  which  it 
bore  in  o\ir  "Augustan"  age  of  Pope  and  Prior,  and 
should  always  bear  if  it  is  to  be  definite  enough  for 
utility  : — wit  or  subtlety,  on  the  part  of  the  artist,  in 
the  manipulation  of  meanings,  and  on  the  part  of  the 


278  ''Diana  of  the  Crossways'' 

recipient  or  critic  the  enjoyment  of  such  subtlety  for 
its  own  sake,  and  as  the  source  of  a  distinct  intellectual 
pleasure.  The  faculty  and  the  pleasure,  for  obvious 
reasons,  have  been  most  highly  developed  in  small 
concentrated  societies.  Among  large  bodies  of  people 
it  is  difficult  to  bring  about  that  uniformity  of  habit 
in  language  and  ideas  without  which  a  speaker  dares 
not  and  cannot  be  subtly  suggestive  ;  and  among 
scattered  bodies  it  is  more  than  difficult.  Between 
two  foreigners  wit  is  well-nigh  impossible,  and  for 
high  wit  not  all  of  one  nation  even  can  be  native 
enough  to  one  another.  Athens  in  the  fifth  and 
fourth  centuries  before  Christ,  Florence  in  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  after,  Paris  and,  to  a  far  less 
degree,  London  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
— these  have  been  the  chief  homes  of  wit.  But 
it  is  observable,  and  important  to  the  student  of 
Mr  Meredith,  that  though  cities  have  been  the  breed- 
ing-places of  the  art,  it  is  not  always  within  the  local 
urban  limits  that  the  urban  and  urbane  company 
finds  the  very  best  ground  of  exercise.  To  form 
and  finish  the  personal  atoms,  the  quick  close  life 
of  a  town  is,  broadly  speaking,  indispensable  ;  but 
once  formed,  they  may  be  more  free  to  group  and 
grapple  in  a  cultured  rustication;  more  especially  is 
this  so  when  the  city  has  swollen  to  the  size  and 
complexity  of  modern  times.  Fashion  your  wits  in 
Paris,  and  then  away  to  the  villa  !  An  urban  society 
rusticated — that  is  the  properest  situation.  Mr  Mere- 
dith has  himself  summed  up  the  matter,  and  with  it 
a  great  chapter  or  volume  in  the  history  of  human 


""Diana  of  the  Crossivays''  279 

education,  in  the  characteristic  phrase  (darkly  splen- 
did as  wit  should  be)  which  describes  the  actors  of 
The  Egoist :  "A  simple-seeming  word  of  this  import 
is  the  triumph  of  the  spiritual,  and  where  it  passes 
for  coin  of  value  the  society  has  reached  a  high 
refinement — Arcadian  by  the  aesthetic  route."  The 
preference  of  the  author  for  companies  in  this  pre- 
dicament, folk  of  intellectual  fashion,  transplanted  to 
the  parks  of  the  province,  is  scarcely  less  than  that 
of  Peacock,  with  his  Nightmare  Abbey,  Crotchet 
Castle,  and  other  synonyms  for  a  scene  always 
constantly  the  same.  But  the  various  ingenuity  of 
Mr  Meredith  in  conducting  us  to  the  favourable  field 
is  as  far  above  the  rude  machinery  of  Peacock  as  the 
wit  of  Peacock,  though  copious  for  an  Englishman, 
is  below  the  wealth  which  Nature,  laughing  as  her 
wont  is  at  her  own  rules,  has  suddenly  chosen  to 
reveal  in  a  denizen  of  Surrey. 

It  may  not  perhaps  be  said  that  without  a 
Patterne  Hall  or  a  Beckley  Court  or  a  Copsley  for 
focus  of  the  story  Mr  Meredith  has  never  achieved 
success  ;  but  it  is  in  the  dining-rooms  and  the  draw- 
ing-rooms of  such  mansions,  and  at  social  gatherings 
there,  that  those  scenes  are  enacted  which  are  most 
entirely  and  distinctively  his  own.  Certainly  the 
crises  of  the  drama  do  not  always  occur  when  "  the 
daughters  of  the  Great  Mel  have  to  digest  him  at 
dinner"  i^Evan  Haj'rington,  chap,  xxii),  or  in  "ani- 
mated conversation  at  a  luncheon-table"  {The  Egoist, 
chap,  xxxvi),  or  amid  the  cross-currents  of  an  inop- 
portune call,  as  in  "  the  scene  of  Sir  Willoughby's 


28o  ''Diana  of  the  Crossways'' 

generalship"  (7^/^^  Egoist,  chap,  xlvi)  ;  though,  when 
such  crises  do  so  occur,  the  reader  who  cares  for 
I  Mr  Meredith  at  all,  gets  something  scarcely  to  be 
I  priced  in  the  literary  exchange.  But  beyond  this, 
the  principal  personages  of  Mr  Meredith,  all  and 
always,  owe  so  much  of  their  characters  to  the 
experience  of  such  meetings,  that  their  behaviour 
elsewhere  is  scarcely  to  be  understood  until  we  have 
read  long  enough  and  widely  enough  in  the  author 
to  know,  without  telling,  how  they  would  behave 
themselves  in  that  sort  of  arena.  This  is  the  engine 
that  he  delights  to  work.  Take  a  set  of  people  all 
trained  to  use  with  facility  the  same  medium  of 
choice  and  exact  speech,  and  all  sufficiently  sensitive 
in  intellect  and  feeling  to  shrink  from  anything  like 
rudeness  or  baldness  or  bluntness  in  manner  and 
expression.  Place  them  in  such  relations  to  one 
another  that  each  has  much  to  conceal,  much  to 
reveal,  and  much  to  discover  in  the  thoughts,  de- 
sires, and  generally  in  the  nature  of  himself  and  his 
companions  ;  in  such  relations  that  from  interview 
to  interview,  and  indeed  from  moment  to  moment, 
there  must  be  changes  of  mutual  attitude,  sometimes 
slow  and  sometimes  sudden,  as  in  the  pattern  of  a 
kaleidoscope  turned  gently.  Then  have  a  Mr  George 
Meredith  to  provide  them  with  dialogue,  and  to  ex- 
plain the  inner  springs  of  movement  when  dialogue, 
however  delicately  constructed,  is  not  explanatory 
I  enough.  And  then — why,  then  you  will  see  what 
1  you  can  see, — Diana  of  the  Crossways,  for  example, 
1    chaps.  XXII,  xxviii,  xxx,  xxxi,  xxxv,  xxxviii-xliii. 


''Diana  of  the  Crossways"  281 

This  book  in  particular,  Diana  of  (he  Crossways,      ] 
though   reasons   might  certainly   be  given   for  not 
placing  it  first  among  the   author's  achievements, 
and  though  for  myself  I  very  much  prefer,  for  in- 
stance,  the  good  parts  of  Evan  Harrington,  and      | 
should   rank    The  Egoist   immeasurably  above  it — 
as,  indeed,  in  its  own  line,  above  anything  which 
modern  literature  has  to  show — has  nevertheless  one 
noticeable  advantage  as  a  commencement  of  study. 
Here  at  least,  there  is  no  possibility  of  mistake  or 
misunderstanding   as    to   the    primary    importance 
which,  among  the  elements  of  the  artistic  product,      ^ 
must  be  assigned  to  wit.     The  principal  figure  is 
notoriously  and  professedly  a  woman  of  wit,  moves 
and  has  her  being  in  wit,  and  simply  because  of 
her   wit,    attains    the    position    and    undergoes   the 
experience  in  which  we  see  her.     The  society   in 
which  she  moves  is  consciously  and  professedly  a 
witty  society,  could  not  live  without  wit  any  more 
than  without  food.     Now,  since  wit  always  makes 
a  part,  and   a  very  large   part,  of  Mr  Meredith's 
interest  in  his  subject,  whatever  that  subject  may  on 
the  surface  appear  to  be,  and  since — to  repeat  once     , 
more  the  only  point  on  which  I  care  to  insist — the 
reader  who  does  not  appreciate  linguistic  dexterity,     j 
and  does  not  rate  it  highly  among  human  capacities,     j 
had  much  better  let  Mr  Meredith  alone,  it  is  well 
that  on  this  point  our  attention  should  be  challenged 
at  once.     Doubtless  there  are  many  aspects  in  which 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  may  be  regarded.     It  is  a 
study  in  the  development  of  character ;   it  exhibits 

18-5 


282  ^^ Diana  of  the  Cros sways'' 

many  pleasant  pictures ;  it  has  scenes,  two  at  least, 
of  elaborate  and  nevertheless  effective  pathos ;  its 
plot  turns  upon  the  deep  problem  of  marriage.  In 
these  matters  among  others,  and  especially  in  the 
last  mentioned,  it  is  possible,  it  may  just  now  be 
fashionable,  to  see  the  essential  and  most  significant 
element.  But  none  of  these  things  are  the  essential 
— no,  not  the  problem  of  marriage.  If  you  want 
pathos,  or  pictures,  or  social  problems,  you  can  get 
them  elsewhere,  you  will  find  them  more  easily  else- 
where ;  which  is  practically  to  say  that  you  will  find 
them  better.  What  you  have  here  is  a  touchstone 
which,  were  it  not  for  other  volumes  from  the  same 
hand,  would  be  in  its  kind  unique  among  the  pro- 
ducts of  England,  to  ascertain  whether  you  have  the 
faculty  of  enjoying  dexterity  in  the  manipulation  of 
language ;  this  you  have,  and  also  an  instrument 
with  which  to  cultivate  that  faculty,  if  you  happen 
to  possess  it.  If  we  are  Englishmen,  it  is  probable, 
as  Mr  Meredith  repeatedly  hints  to  us\  that  by  our 
nature  we  suspect  wit  with  all  the  malice  of  honesty, 
and  not  unlikely  that  we  hate  it  with  all  the  vigour 
of  sloth.  The  first  is  a  grave  and  the  second  a 
grievous  error.  But  a  worse  state  yet  would  be 
the  self-deception  of  supposing  ourselves  witty  or 
capable  of  wit  because  in  a  witty  author  we  have 
come  to  enjoy  something  else. 

Manifestly,  from  the  scope  of  the  story,  Diana 
of  the  Crossways  could   not  have  been  attempted 
except  by  one  who  felt  himself  able  to  unfold  the 
^  E.g.  Diana^  chaps,  n,  xi,  xxxix. 


''Diana  of  the  Crossways''  283 

riches  of  clever  speech.  Of  the  luxuriance  actually 
displayed  no  sampling  can  give  a  fair  representation. 
There  is  scarcely  perhaps  any  type  of  cleverness 
which  is  not  exemplified  copiously.  There  is  the 
"sentence,"  "gnom^,"  or  "epigram,"  scattered  in 
dozens  and  hundreds.  "  The  world  is  ruthless,  be- 
cause the  world  is  hypocrite."  "She  was  perforce 
the  actress  of  her  part.... It  is  a  terrible  decree  that 
all  must  act  who  would  prevail."  "Slumber... a  ' 
paradoxical  thing  you  must  battle  for,  and  can  only 
win  at  last  when  utterly  beaten."  "She  was  delight-  ' 
ful  to  hear,  delightful  to  see ;  and  her  friends  loved 
her  and  had  faith  in  her.  So  clever  a  woman  might 
be  too  clever  for  her  friends."  "  Money  is,  of  course, 
a  rough  test  of  virtue,"  said  Red  worth  ;  "we  have  \ 
no  other  general  test."  "We  are  much  influenced 
in  youth  by  sleepless  nights."  "  Men  and  women 
crossing  the  high  seas  of  life  he  had  found  most 
readable  under  that  illuminating  inquiry — as  to  their  j 
means."  Among  such  phrases  some  are  in  import 
simple,  some  profoundly  penetrative;  but  their  com- 
mon quality  is  that  they  are  rememberable,  and  this 
they  are,  because  they  are  in  turn  and  wording  so 
scrupulously  right.  In  the  last  cited,  some  of  the 
merit  lies  in  the  felicity  of  the  implied  simile,  which 
may  be  more  fully  seen  in  the  context  (chap,  xxxix) : 
the  power  to  find  and  to  work  out  analogies  has 
always  been  noted  as  a  great  branch  of  wit;  indeed, 
where  wit  has  been  studied,  the  tendency  has  com- 
monly been,  as  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  to  exag- 
gerate the  importance  of  this  branch.     At  any  rate 


284  "  Diana  of  the  Crossways  " 

it  is  through  such  power  that  wit  most  often  attains 
to  the  form  of  eloquence.  And  in  this  kind  also  the 
mastery  of  our  author  is  astounding  :  "  With  her,  or 
rather  with  his  thought  of  her  soul,  he  understood 
the  right  union  of  women  and  men  from  the  roots  to 
the  flowering  heights  of  that  rare  graft.  She  gave 
him  comprehension  of  the  meaning  of  love — a  word 
in  many  mouths,  not  often  explained.  With  her, 
wound  in  his  idea  of  her,  he  perceived  it  to  signify 
a  new  start  in  our  existence,  a  finer  shoot  of  the  tree 
stoutly  planted  in  good  gross  earth ;  the  senses 
running  their  live  sap,  and  the  minds  companioned, 
and  the  spirits  made  one  by  the  whole-natured  con- 
junction. In  sooth,  a  happy  prospect  for  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Earth,  divinely  indicating  more 
than  happiness  :  the  speeding  of  us,  compact  of  what 
we  are,  between  the  ascetic  rocks  and  the  sensual 
whirlpools,  to  the  creation  of  certain  nobler  races, 
now  very  dimly  imagined."  Could  this  possibly  be 
better  done  ?  Less  brightness  but  more  blaze  is  in 
the  description  of  the  scandal  sometimes  attending 
the  publication  of  diaries  and  memoirs :  "The  Diarist 
...howks  the  graves,  and  transforms  the  quiet  worms, 
busy  on  a  single  poor  peaceable  body,  into  winged 
serpents  that  disorder  sky  and  earth  with  a  deadly 
flight  of  zig-zags,  like  military  rockets,  among  the 
living."  And  there  should  be  added  here,  if  there 
were  room,  by  way  of  a  climax  in  this  sort,  the 
picture  of  jealousy  from  The  Egoist  (chap,  xxiii), 
a  thing  to  make  one  stupid  with  admiration — so 
perhaps  one  had  best  not  dwell  upon  it. 


'■^  Diana  of  the  Crossways''  285 

Nearer  to  the  popular  notion  of  wit,  because 
more  heavily  pointed,  are  such  things  as  Diana's 
rebuke  to  her  too  presuming  intimate :  "  You  must 
come  less  often,  even  to  not  at  all,  if  you  are  one  of 
those  idols  with  feet  of  clay  which  leave  the  print 
of  their  steps  in  a  room,  or  fall  and  crush  the 
silly  idolizer."  Or,  again,  the  reflexions  of  Lady 
Dunstane,  the  "  woman  of  brains,"  upon  Diana's 
unfortunate  husband :  "  Her  first  and  her  final 
impression  likened  him  to  a  house  locked  up  and 
empty ;  a  London  house  conventionally  furnished 
and    decorated   by   the    upholsterer,   and  empty  of 

inhabitants Empty  of  inhabitants  even  to  the  ghost ! 

Both  human  and  spiritual  were  wanting.  The  mind 
contemplating  him  became  reflectively  stagnant." 
Or,  again,  Diana  writing  to  Lady  Dunstane  on  the 
political  prospects  of  women:  "The  middle  age  of 
men  is  their  time  of  delusion.  It  is  no  paradox. 
They  may  be  publicly  useful  in  a  small  way — I  do 
not  deny  it  at  all.  They  must  be  near  the  gates  of 
life — the  opening  or  the  closing — for  their  minds  to 
be  accessible  to  the  urgency  of  the  greater  ques- 
tions..." and  so  on,  the  whole  passage  (chap,  xv) 
excellent,  and  enough  in  itself  to  establish  Diana  for 
a  wit  of  the  first  rank. 

As  for  the  small  change  of  wit,  sallies,  repartees, 
and  so  forth,  the  dialogue,  everywhere  and  by  the 
nature  or  necessity  of  the  story,  is  starred  with  them. 
They  cannot  be  overlooked,  and  it  is  not  fair  to  take 
them  from  their  setting;  so  we  will  not  quote  any, 
but   will   remark,   however,   that   from    The   Egoist, 


W 


2  86  ''Diana  of  the  Crossways^' 

perhaps  from  Beauchamf  s  Career,  we  might  cull 
a  score  or  so  better  than  any  of  these.  Over  the 
whole  scale  of  smartness,  from  top  to  bottom,  the 
author  ranges  with  justified  assurance.  He  is  not 
afraid  to  tell  us  right  out  what  was  the  particular 
I  quip  by  which  Diana  repelled  the  malicious  attack 
I  of  Mrs  Cramborne  Wathin  (chap.  xiv).  Great 
writers,  the  very  greatest,  have  flinched  at  such  a 
trial.  Scott  does  repeatedly ;  Thackeray  does  in 
a  famous  crisis  of  Vanity  Fair — and  Thackeray 
stands  high  among  English  wits.  Mr  Meredith, 
amazing  as  it  is  to  see,  is  perfectly  ready,  and  hits 
the  mark  exactly,  giving  just  what  is  good  enough 
and  not  (an  error  scarcely  less  easy)  too  good. 

The  pursuit  of  wit  has  its  dangers,  and  that  Mr 
Meredith  always  avoids  or  overcomes  them,  I  at 
least  shall  not  for  a  moment  maintain.  It  is  the 
I  way  of  wit,  and  it  must  be,  to  tread  constantly  on 
I  the  verge  of  darkness.  To  demand  that  wit  shall 
be  always  or  often  easy  of  understanding,  would  be 
simply  to  expose  our  ignorance  of  its  character  and 
conditions.  But  what  we  often  use  we  may  well 
come  to  tolerate,  or  even  to  love,  when  there  is  no 
use  in  it ;  and  so  may  wit  come  to  love  darkness. 
My  own  experience  (each  must  speak  for  himself) 
is  that  there  is  no  noticeable  work  of  wit  which  is 
not  sometimes  sheerly  incomprehensible.  Hamlet 
is  an  example,  and  to  my  mind,  I  confess,  a  very 
black  one.  There  are  passages  in  The  Way  of  the 
World  which  to  me  are  no  better  than  headache. 
No  doubt  in  such  a  case  we  should  be  cautious  in 


''Diana  of  the  Crossways"  287 

decision  ;  often  it  will  appear  in  the  end  that  what 
seemed  wilful  confusion  has  a  purpose,  and  could 
hardly  have  been  made  simpler  without  some  injury. 
But  that  it  is  always  so  we  need  not  believe  ;  and 
of  Mr  Meredith  I  will  say  frankly,  though  with  the 
profoundest  respect,  that  not  very  seldom  (so  far  as 
with  patient  study  I  can  judge)  he  is  dark  beyond  or 
even  without  legitimate  reason.  Readers  of  Diana 
will  find  occasion  to  consider  the  question  ;  only  let 
them  consider  it  long,  and  for  each  occasion  afresh. 
Chapters  i,  ix,  xiii  (to  go  no  further)  should  cost  them 
some  time. 

And  another  danger  is  that  the  author  may  put 
wit  in  the  wrong  place,  or  too  much  of  it,  to  the 
injury  of  dramatic  truth.  That  Congreve  did  so, 
often  and  constantly,  I  think  with  Lord  Macaulay  ; 
and  notwithstanding  well  meant  apologies.  And 
here  Mr  Meredith  especially  might  be  put  in  a 
dilemma.  Since  the  English,  by  temper,  are  so 
backward  of  wit  as  he  says  they  are,  how  shall  we 
allow,  for  pictures  of  English  society,  these  scintil- 
lating clusters  which  he  presents  to  us  ?  Personally 
I  do  not  find  this  a  very  serious  matter,  provided 
that  the  tone  of  the  picture  be  consistent,  be 
brightened  or  heightened  throughout  in  proportion. 
Whether  the  result  be  historically  true  or  not,  we  do 
not  much  care.  Congreve,  I  hold,  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  satisfied  the  proviso  ;  the  dimensions 
of  theatrical  work  constrained  him.  Whether  Mr 
Meredith  satisfies  it  is  too  complicated  a  matter  for 


288  '^  Diana  of  the  Crossways" 

present  discussion ;   I  should  say  that,  on  the  whole 
and  with  some  lapses,  he  does. 

I  have  not  touched,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  touch, 
on  the  ethical  substance  of  Diana  of  the  Crossways. 
There  is  no  fear  but  that  the  reader  will  give  to  it 
all  the  attention  that  it  deserves.  The  chief  char- 
acter is  borrowed,  in  parts,  with  some  of  the  chief 
incidents,  as  the  first  chapter  informs  us,  from  the 
career  of  an  historic  woman,  whose  conduct,  never- 
theless, differed  from  that  of  Diana  essentially. 
Whether  the  author  has  triumphed  perfectly  over 
the  immense  difficulties  of  making  from  his  historic 
model  a  true  Diana,  the  reader  must  judge.  Notable 
it  is,  and  questionable,  that  her  salvation,  so  to  speak, 
,A  is  achieved,  so  far  as  appears,  by  the  purest  accident. 
After  reading  chapter  xxv,  one  may  be  haunted  by 
a  certain  weighty  sentence  (not  in  Johnsonese)  of 
Dr  Johnson's.  Truly  chapter  xxvi  may  well  drive 
that  and  everything  else  out  of  the  mind.  But — 
but — well,  the  reader  must  judge.  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  say  that  I  like  Miss  Asper,  and  am  glad  she 
married  Dacier.  So  probably  for  my  reasons  or 
for  others,  is  Mr  Meredith.  And  I  am  sorry — is 
he  i* — for  Mr  Warwick. 


INDEX    I 


Aeschylus  87-89,  225 
Altar  of  Mercy  226-235 
Andromache^  see  Euripides 
Aqueduct,  the  Marcian  137  f. 
Aristophanes  85-87,  236-239 

on  Aeschylus  87 

on  Euripides  85  f.,  236-239 
Athens  225-235 

Areopagus  234  f. 

New  Humanism  at  225 

Britannicus,  murder  of  73  f. 

Caesar,  Calendar  of  Julius  216 

Callimachus  44,  50 

Catillus  and  Coras  142-145 

Coras,  see  Catillus 

Coliseum  59  ff. 

Cynthia  27-57,  1 16-126 
Part  I.  27-36,   116 
Part  II.  37-46,  116  f.,  124 
Part    III.     38,     44-52,     116  f., 

124-126 
Part  IV.  52-57 

Dante  153-218,  221  f.,  228,  232, 

235 
Latin  in  213  f.,  218 
on     "the     laurel"     161,     165,' 

167-171,  178 
on  name  "Statins"  198-203 
on  Statins,  birthplace  of  235 
on      Statius,      Christianity     of 

153-203,  221,  228 
on  Virgil's  birth  204-218 
on  Virgil's  poems  174-176,  190, 

205  f.,  208,  218,  222 
Diana     of    the     Crossways,     see 
/         Meredith 

Erotion   11-13 


Euripides    85-1 11,    225  f.,    236- 
240 
Andromache  of  93-1  u 
Aristophanes  on  85  f. 
Children  of  Heracles  of  225  f. 
Prologues  of  236  ff. 
Sophocles  on  90 
Suppliants  of  225  f. 

Gibbon,   on   religion   of    Roman 

Empire  219  f. 
Guy  Mannering,  see  Scott 

Lay  of  Last  Minstrel,  see  Scott 
Lucan  213,  233 

Marcella  of  Bilbilis  25  f. 
Marriage  in  the  Roman  Empire 

112  ff. 
Martial   6-26,   60-65,   68-72,    78, 

126,  137  f. 
Martialis,  park  of  Julius  19-21 
Mercy,  Altar  of  226-235 
Meredith,  George,  Diana  of  the 
Crossways,  280-288 
Evan  Harrington  279 
The  Egoist  277,  279,  284  f. 
Milton,   Hymn    on    Morning    of 
Nativity,   197 
Lycidas  145  f. 
Paradise  Lost  223 

Ovid   146-148,  150-152 

Peter,    Saint,    "the    Fisherman" 

159 
Propertius  27-57,   115-126,   138  f. 

Redgauntlet,  see  Scott 
Roman  Emperor,  worship  of  7-9, 
160-163,  205,  212 


290 


Index  I 


Roman  Empire 

Gibbon  on  religion  of  219  f. 
Marriage  laws  of  ii2fif. 
Western  Provinces  of  4  f. 

St  Ronaiis  Well,  see  Scott 
Saturnalia  58-84 

"birds"  at  8 if. 

description  of  Feast  66-84 

gambling  at  67-70 

presents  at  70  fF. 
Scott,  Byron  on  247 

Guy  Mannering  186,  248-264 

Lay  of  Last  Minstrel  223,  232 

Redgauntlet  265-272 

St  Ronaft^s   Well  154,  273  ff. 
of    257,    261-264, 


Henry     VI.     251, 


Vocabulary 
270-273 
Shakespeare, 

257  f. 

Sophocles,  on  Euripides  90 
Statins     64  f.,     74-84,     129-147, 
153-203,    221-235 
Achilleis   154,    157  f.,    160-164, 
170  fif.,    174,    177  ft.,    182  fF., 
189,  196,  202 
Altar  of  Mercy  226-235 
Hellenism  of  226-231 
name  of  201  ff. 


Statius,  Saturnalia  74-84 
Silvae  129,  154 
Thebais    64  f.,     154,     158-164, 
172,    175,    178-182,    184-198, 
200,  202  f.,  221-235 
Villa  of  Vopiscus  129-146 
references    to    Virgil    in    223, 

233 
Stevenson,  Catriona  265,  268  f. 
The   Wrecker  187 

Tennyson,  Idylls  of  the  King  186, 

223,  239-246 
Tiberinus  1468". 
Tibur,  see  Tivoli 
Tivoh,     place     of     retreat     128, 
148-152 
Vopiscus'  villa  at  129-146 

Virgil  174-176,  190,  204-218,  222, 
232 
j£7teid  206,  222,  232 
Dante  on  Birth  of  204-218 
Eclogues  174  ff.,  190,  205,  208, 
218,  222 
Vopiscus  129  ff. 

Wandering     Willie's     Tale,     see 
Scott,   Redgaufttlet 


INDEX     II 

[Passages  translated,  quoted,  or  discussed) 


PAGES 

Aristophanes,  Frogs,   1 197-1248... 

..          236  ff. 

Dante,  Inferno,  I.  70-72  ... 

204-218 

I.   124     

160 

II.   13-27            

206 

IV.  80 

209 

Paradiso  ix 

170 

XXIV 

169 

XXV 

167  71,     169 

Purgatorio  XXI 

••           155-203,    235 

XXII 

..           155-203 

Euripides,  Andromache,   102-180 

..       99  ff- 

184  f.,  205  f       

..       103 

88r-ioo8            

104  ff. 

1085-1165          

109  ff. 

Index  II 


291 


Horace,  C.  i.  7.  14 

-21 

C.  I.  34.  1-5     . 

C.  II.  6.   5-8     . 

.. 

C  III.  29.  2-4. 

Juvenal,  ^a/.  vn,  8 

2-92 

Martial  I.  49 

H.  14      ... 

III.  47    •- 

III.  58    ... 

IV.  44     ... 

IV.  55     ... 

IV.  64     ... 

IV.  88     ... 

V.  30      ... 

V.  34      ■■• 

V.  37      ••• 

V.  84      ... 

VI.  42.  19-21    . 

VI.   83      ... 

VII.    13    ... 

VII.  60    ... 

IX.  18.  7i. 

IX.  59    ... 

IX.  6i     ... 

X.  4 

X.  yi     ... 

X.  6i 

XI.   2 

XI.  6 

XI.   18     ... 

XII.  21    ... 

XII.  31   ... 

Lib.  Spec.  l. 

II. 

III. 

Ovid,  Aviores  lu.  ( 

).   49-8 

Ex  Fonto  1.  3.  8 

If. 

Fasti  vr.  665-684 

Propertius  I.   i.   1-6 

I.  2.  7  f. 

I.  3.   17-46 

I.  6.  13  ff. 

I.  14.  I  ff. 

I.  15.  9-22 

I.  20 

H.    I 

II.  7       ... 

u.   10      ... 

II.  II     ... 

II.  13.  19-36   . 

II.   18.  3f.  (  =  Palmer  18 /^  9f.) 


PAUES 

220 
149 
130 

157,  202  n 

21-23 

II 

i6 

16-18 

II 

4'-,  23 

19-21 

71 

70 

II 

12  f. 

72 

138 

8 

127 

7 

138 

10 

14  i'. 

65 

21,  24  f. 

II 

69 

68 

13 
25  f. 

25 
60 
61 

63 

146-148 

150 

151  f. 

31 

32 

11 

34 

35 

35 

36 

38 

n  «,  43 
43  f- 
39,  43 

41 


292 

Index  J  I 

PAGES 

Propertius  ii.  20     ... 

46 

11.  23.  I  f. 

41 

11.  26.  1-20 

40 

II.  28.  35-46 

42 

II.  31      ... 

45 

n.  34     ••• 

44 

III.  2 

49 

III.  3     ... 

138  « 

III.  6      ... 

46 

III.  7.  71  f. 

... 

50 

III.  8      ... 

46 

III.  9     ... 

49 

III.   10.   1-32 

47  f. 

III.   10.  31-46 

49 

III.   16    ... 

46 

III.   18    ... 

45,  121 

III.  20    ... 

47,  ii8f. 

III.  21    ... 

121,  125 

III.  22    ... 

50,  125 

III.  23  I  f. 

51 

III.  24.   1-20 

51 

III.  25    ... 

52 

IV.  7 

53-57 

IV.  8      ... 

52  n 

Scott,  Giiy  Mannering^  < 

"h.  VII 

249-263 

Ch.  LIII. 

... 

264 

Redgauntlet,  Letter  xi 

265-272 

St  Ronaris   Well,  Ch. 

XXIV. 

274  f. 

Ch.  XXXV. 

274  f. 

Shakespeare,  Henry   VI. 

III.    V. 

258 

Statius,  Achilleis  l.   14  ff. 

161-180, 

182  f. 

Silvae  I.  3 

130-139 

I.  6        

75-84 

Thebais  i.   1-40  ... 

158-161, 

164,  172,  181  ff. 

VII.  410 

197 

VII.  424 

175,  186- 

188,  192-198 

VII.  430 

195  ^ 

XII.  481-511     ... 

227  f. 

XII.  809 

•       159 

Virgil,  Aen.  vii.   674 

144 

XI.  464,  519     ... 

145 

Ed.  IV.     ... 

.. 

... 

176 

CAMBRIDGE:    PRINTED   BY   JOHN    CLAY,   M.A.   AT   THE    UNIVERSITY   PRESS 


DATE  DUE 

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